


The Miranda Priestly Affair

by occidorien



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006), The Thomas Crown Affair (1999)
Genre: Crossover, F/F, Uber
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 02:06:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2251809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/occidorien/pseuds/occidorien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you get the woman who has everything?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own neither The Devil Wears Prada nor The Thomas Crown Affair, from which I borrowed liberally.
> 
> Originally posted to LiveJournal.

The early morning light filtered into the therapist’s office gauzy and soft, casting Miranda Priestly half in shadow. She sat, lost in thought, across from her therapist’s desk. All preparations were made; the plan was meticulous as far as Miranda could tell, every conceivable circumstance assessed and accounted for. She had crafted herself a puzzle, a test, unlike any other before. Even _Runway_. Well, she was rich and bored, so why not? The fact that the flawless execution of her plot would devastate Irv Ravitz was just a small bonus. 

Everything would happen as it should today. Miranda was nothing if not thorough.

“I want you to talk about women,” her therapist said.

Increasingly, it occurred to Miranda that such thoroughness might be ... _inhibitive_. No one seemed to be able to live with her demanding need for perfection, her compulsive dedication to beauty. After all, she did have two divorces behind her and no real friends of which to speak; hence, the therapy sessions. She’d chosen a man of acceptable renown, Nigel Kipling, and so far, she supposed, he’d been all that one would hope for in a good therapist: an attentive listener who asked insightful questions—

“Miranda?”

Miranda realized she wasn’t paying attention. “Yes?”

“Women,” Nigel said. “You’ve yet to talk about women.”

“Oh, I appreciate women. I enjoy women. I do run a fashion magazine.” Miranda wondered where this was going.

“Yet, you have no female friends.” Nigel stared at her for a long moment, but Miranda gave nothing away. “What about female lovers?”

“What?”

“Well,” Nigel said, “enjoyment isn’t intimacy.”

“And intimacy isn’t necessarily enjoyment.” Miranda’s tone was final.

Nigel was unmoved. “How would you know?”

Miranda gave him a tight smile and looked away.

“Has it occurred to you,” Nigel continued, “that you have a problem with trust?”

“I trust myself implicitly.”

“Yes, but, can other people trust you?”

Miranda glared at him. “My daughters, of course. Or, do you mean society at large?”

“We’ve talked about your daughters and your divorces. I mean women, Miranda.”

“Yes,” Miranda huffed, “a woman could trust me. Is there a point to this?”

“Good,” Nigel said. “Under what extraordinary circumstances would you allow that to happen?”

Though annoyed, Miranda thought about it. “A woman could trust me as long as her interests didn’t run too contrary to my own.”

Amused, Nigel had to ask, “And society, at large, if its interests were to run counter to your own?”

Miranda hummed and quirked her lips. What if, indeed.

 

Traffic was stopped at Fifth Avenue and East 82nd, a typical occurrence which on any other day would annoy Miranda. But today, in the cool interior of the Mercedes, she calmly checked her watch.

Roy watched her in the rearview mirror, shifting in his seat; any second now it was coming, the usual half-rhetorical question— _what’s taking so long_. After years in her service, he still wasn’t certain whether she wanted an answer or not. Instead, Miranda said the last thing he ever expected to hear. “I think I’ll walk for a while.”

“Oh.” Roy turned in his seat. “Are you sure, Miranda? It’s quite warm out.”

“Yes.” Miranda opened the door.

“Would you like me to take your bag, at least?”

“No, I’ll carry it. I’ll call if I need you,” Miranda said, and then shut the door, leaving Roy with incontrovertible proof that there was a first time for everything.

 

Miranda looked toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art and started for the sidewalk. It was true the day was warm, but she had dressed according to plan, and as close to sensible as she’d ever get in a black Chanel pantsuit and two-inch heels. The bag she’d chosen that morning matched perfectly: black, thin and sleek and heavier than normal, but Miranda didn’t mind—

The deep blaring horn of a large delivery truck jarred her, causing her to stop and look up just as she was about to cross the last traffic lane.

The driver braked hard, and the truck jerked to a stop. “Whoa! Jesus Christ!” He glared down at Miranda, who stepped back and lifted an arm, motioning for the driver to go ahead. “Look at this broad,” he spat, then put the truck in gear.

Miranda read the side of the truck as it passed, “Spiro Wallach Co. Inc.” Sometimes it was hard not to believe she had a gift for perfect timing.

 

Despite the early hour, the Met was already beginning to fill up. With purpose, Miranda strode through a group of tourists congregating at the entryway. What was true for the lobby of Elias-Clarke was also true for the Met’s main hall as people milling about seemed to sense Miranda’s presence and made way. She continued past an exhibit of Japanese woodblock prints, the Roman art and artifacts, and the Egyptian collection, for there was only one piece Miranda was there to see. A piece she had been coming to see on a clockwork basis for weeks.

Thankfully, the Impressionist gallery was still free of other people when Miranda arrived. There, among works by Renoir, Monet, Pissarro, Cézanne, Manet, hung the one painting Miranda most wanted to study, _Noon: Rest from Work (After Millet)_ by Vincent van Gogh. 

She sat down on the edge of the bench nearest the painting and set her bag down. She would savor these few moments before the gallery was overrun by tourists and patrons, imagining what it would be like to rest in the bright sun against haystacks in a fragrant field in Saint-Rémy, the hardest work of the day done, not to be remembered until next day’s dawn.

“Morning, Ms. Priestly,” said a baritone voice behind her.

Miranda turned, giving the gallery’s proctor, Bob, a terse nod. “Robert.”

“Back for your haystacks, hm?”

Miranda turned back to the painting. “Don’t ever let it go on tour.”

“Oh, I’ll lay down the law,” Bob laughed. “You know, you’re an odd one.” He nodded to the painting hanging to their right. “Everybody else goes right for the Monet.”

Miranda glanced at the Monet, _San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk_ , with its shiny brass plaque indicating it was “courteously on loan from Mr. and Mrs. Irving Ravitz,” then dismissed it. “Well,” she said, “I suppose it’s nice.”

“Nice?” Bob scoffed. “Do you know what it’s worth?”

Miranda raised an eyebrow. Yes, in fact, she did, and she knew who owned it. But Bob didn’t need to know that. “I simply prefer my haystacks, Robert.”

 

On the south side of the museum, the driver of the Spiro Wallach Co. delivery truck honked at another idiot pedestrian who walked out in front of him. What was it with pedestrians today? If it wasn’t for the insurance and police hassle, he swore he’d take one of them out, just to teach them a lesson: in a contest between stupid human and large truck, stupid human always loses. Didn’t everybody know that? Christ.

He made quick work of backing up to the receiving dock then handed the transfer documents to the receiving clerk. He raised the cargo door of the truck, revealing a huge wooden crate.

“Ah, something’s screwed up,” the clerk said. “My list says some kind of sarcophagus.”

“Well, what do you want me to do, it’s a horse. You want I should take it back and dump it?” The driver’s look said that was the last thing he was going to do.

“Nah. Nah, just unload the damn thing.” The clerk unbuttoned his blazer, pulled at his tie. “Boy, it’s gonna be hot today.”

 

Miranda arrived at the Elias-Clarke building later than she preferred but didn’t feel rushed. As she passed the guards at the front desk, they stared at her unabashed; it wasn’t everyday Miranda Priestly arrived at work in a cab. She was forced to wait for an elevator along with two men who were discussing some throwaway magazine. From the bit of conversation she overheard, it seemed one of the men was recently hired.

The elevator’s customary ding announced its arrival, and the new hire started for the elevator just as Miranda did. She pursed her lips.

The new hire’s colleague watched this in horror and grabbed the man’s arm, yanking him out of the elevator. “Uh, excuse us,” he said.

Miranda stepped into the elevator and, as the doors slid closed, she heard the new hire say, “What, she own the building or something?” Miranda smirked.

She stepped into the controlled chaos of the _Runway_ offices, shocking Emily, who hadn’t received her usual warning of Miranda’s imminent arrival. 

“Good morning, Miranda,” Emily said, and followed Miranda toward her office. Only, something wasn’t right. “Where’s your bag? And your shoes...” slipped out of Emily’s mouth before she realized she was speaking aloud.

Mercifully, Miranda ignored Emily’s impertinence. “I must have left it at home this morning.” She surveyed a layout waiting on her desk.

Emily’s eyes went wide. Miranda forget her bag? “But, but—”

“Emily,” Miranda said, her voice quiet and whip-like, “there is a cab downstairs waiting to be paid, and I am waiting for my latte.”

“Right.” Emily snapped shut her gaping mouth, stood straight. “Yes, of course.”

Miranda watched Emily nearly run from the office. She left the layout on the desk, moved to a window, and looked out upon the city, so clear and bright today. She toyed with an earring, not minding the sudden urge to smile.

 

The clerk handed the transfer papers to his supervisor, and they watched as a forklift transported the crate to the entrance of the museum’s vault. The supervisor compared the paperwork. His list read: ETRUSCAN SARCOPHAGUS/3RD CENT. BRONZE STATUE; the driver’s: FIRST CENTURY GRECO ASIAN HORSE.

“We have a disparity here,” the supervisor said.

“Yeah, I saw that.”

“Well, we can’t leave it here.” The supervisor opened a black box on the wall, inserted a key and turned a large knob; the vault’s door slowly lifted. “Let’s find out what the problem is.”

The forklift carried the crate to the vault’s east wing, where it was pried open. Both supervisor and clerk stared into the crate, which housed a dusty, grayish-white, ancient-looking horse reared back on its hind legs, part of its mane spilled down its back, away from a head that once was impressive but now was missing. It was imposing, every muscle of its body delineated, poised and lifelike.

“That,” the supervisor said, “is not a sarcophagus.” He shook his head. “It’s Friday.”

As he watched his boss walk away, the clerk understood Monday would be a clusterfuck.

 

Irv Ravitz loved this. For him, there was nothing quite as sweet as Miranda Priestly asking for money. Not for the first time, he considered scheduling _Runway’s_ budget meetings for twice a month rather than just the once. No. No, he decided. At once a month he could keep them as a special treat, a reward of sorts. He smiled at Miranda across the conference table, congratulating himself for superior reasoning.

Miranda read through the budget, considering each page. Irv reached for a cigar, preparing to light it the moment she signed off. She reached for her pen; he reached for a match. She lifted her pen; he lifted his match. She signed the last page; he struck the match and lit the cigar.

“Never thought I’d see that,” Irv said, chuckling. “Miranda Priestly agreeing to a budget on its first draft.” He pulled on the cigar, a cloud of noxious smoke lingered near his thin-lipped mouth. “So, what do you think, Miranda? No regrets on not asking for more money?”

“Regret is a waste of time,” Miranda said. “As is gloating.” She stood to leave, then leaned over the table toward Irv. “Your signature is on that budget, too. Has it occurred to you, or your accountants, that I’ve just signed for thirty percent more than I need? What will it look like to the board when, yet again, I bring Elias-Clarke’s most successful publication in under budget?” She grinned. “Good morning, Irv.”

 

All was still in the east wing of the Met’s vault, except for a steady, muffled, scraping. From inside the accidental Greco-Asian horse a thin saw methodically worked its way along the belly, carving precise lines. The saw stopped, retracted. A thud and a crack and the belly gave, swinging open in two halves, revealing itself as not made of stone or marble, but of plaster; a sophisticated papier-mâché sculpture. Then, one by one, four men, equipped with headlamps and scuba gear, dropped out the horse’s belly, onto the pile of plaster dust accumulated beneath it. The men, sweaty and dressed in black, removed the scuba gear, taking deep breaths and stretching out their backs and limbs.

The leader, a tall man with a permanent scowl and a day’s worth of stubble, checked his watch, which read 11:30. He picked up a large duffel bag and spoke with a thickly accented voice, “All right. English from now on.”

They moved to a nearby wall where one of the men lit a welder’s torch and began burning a hole into the metal wall of the vault. Well-trained, he took only moments to complete the work, kicking once, twice, to push out the metal and clear the way to the other side: the museum’s compressor room.

Once inside, the men stuck close to the wall, hidden in shadow, watching the security camera scan the room. As the camera rotated away from them, the leader silently signaled, and two men crossed to the other side of the room, extracting a rope and a retractable pole from their packs. 

With a small mirror, the leader checked the camera. Again it was out of range, so he signaled to the third man, who stepped to the middle of the room, aimed and fired a harpoon-like metal stake into the ceiling. The other men rushed out, threading the rope attached to the stake through the pole, creating a makeshift pulley.

The leader kept his eye on the camera, watching as it started to swing back toward them. “Go! Go!” he said.

Quickly, the third man wrapped his leg in the rope and began hoisting himself toward the pipes running the length of the ceiling; the other two men moved back into the shadows as they reeled in the rope’s slack. When he reached the pipes, the third man cut into the largest one, then pulled out a crib sheet indicating which wire was for electric locks and which was for air conditioning. Using small alligator clips, he made a patch along each wire, and then pulled out a wire cutter.

 

Floors above, a group of schoolchildren lingered by Monet’s _San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk_. They fidgeted as their teacher recited boring facts. 

“This painting is considered to be the first Impressionist work in history. It started the Impressionist movement.” 

One kid yawned. 

“It influenced dozens of major artists who went to found the first major school, or style, of the twenty-first century.” 

The children were not impressed; some frowned at the painting. 

The teacher took a deep breath. “Okay. Try this: it’s worth a hundred million bucks.” The children gasped.

Across the room, one girl drifted close to a large Monet, _The Walk, Woman with a Parasol_ , reaching out to touch its paint, which looked thick and wet. A gentle but firm hand grabbed her arm and she spun around, startled.

“Young lady, do not touch,” Bob said, then released her arm. “I’ll let you go this time. On your way.”

She ran to the gallery’s entrance but stopped when she heard a strange clicking noise. Just like in freeze tag, she stayed in place, following the clicking noise with her eyes as it moved down the length of the wall. She looked around the gallery, but nobody else seemed to hear it, not even the old man who’d just talked to her. She shrugged and ran to catch up with her class.

 

In museum security’s main control room, a guard looked up from his book at a blinking alarm on his computer screen. “Hey, Jimmy. Would you take a look in the compressor room? There’s something wrong with the A/C.”

Already heading out to do rounds, Jimmy and his partner stopped. “Can’t we just pass it on to engineering?”

Another guard looked up from a checklist, shook his head. “The book says we check it first.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Fine.”

Once in the elevator, Jimmy’s partner hit the button for the subbasement and grimaced. “It would be one of the hottest days of the year. Can you believe it’s nearly October?”

Jimmy shook his head.

“Anyway,” his partner continued, sounding bored, “why don’t you bring the kid?”

Jimmy snorted. “Are you kidding? You know how she is. She’d probably tell the court I was endangering him or something.”

“No kidding?”

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. “You wouldn’t believe the shit that woman deals out,” Jimmy said.

They stepped into the compressor room, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Splitting up, they walked either side of the room before meeting up in front of the air conditioning compressors, which were off.

“The whole air conditioning plant’s crapped out,” the partner said.

“Why didn’t they call maintenance?”

Jimmy’s partner looked at him, the question clearly redundant. Jimmy shook his head. They got back on the elevator, noticing neither the men hidden in the shadows nor the man clinging to the pipes near the ceiling.

When the elevator doors closed, three of the men gathered their gear and climbed into the main ventilation shaft. With a detailed schematic, the leader guided them to the museum personnel locker room, which was empty. They dropped down into the room and quickly changed into the white shirt, black tie, maroon jacket uniform of the museum’s proctors. Moments later, they stepped out onto the museum floor.

 

By late afternoon, Miranda was ready to leave the office. She gathered only what was necessary and tried to make her way past Emily quickly.

As she passed, Emily looked up in disbelief; apparently Miranda had found her ... ”I see you, uh, found a bag.” She pointed at—of all things—the briefcase in Miranda’s hand.

Miranda stopped, glanced back. “Yes.”

Emily was scandalized, but she gulped it down. “W-W-Would you like me to call Roy?”

“No.”

By the time she recovered, Emily murmured, “Goodnight, then,” to an empty office. 

There had been bizarre days during her time as Miranda’s assistant, but between today’s two-inch heels and that briefcase, this day beat them all.

 

For the second time that day, Miranda found herself in a taxi. Traffic was again stopped at Fifth and East 82nd, so she paid the driver and walked the rest of the way down 82nd toward the Met. Impatience crept up on her, and she began to move quickly, weaving through pedestrians. She was close now.

 

The men stalked into the Impressionist gallery and fanned out. The leader walked up to the proctor on duty. “Hey, they want to talk to you upstairs.”

“Me? Or the regular proctor,” he said, checking his watch, “because McKinley’ll be back in just a couple of seconds—”

“I think you should talk to them.” 

The proctor stared back at the leader, uncertain he was really hearing that menacing tone. 

The leader gestured to a phone near the gallery’s main entrance. “Call them, if you like.”

Keeping his eye on the men, the proctor picked up the phone, which connected him with the fourth man, who was still in place. “Yes, this is Jeff in Wing Eight. I was just told you wanted to speak with me.” Jeff listened. “Okay, I’ll be right up.” He hung up the phone, shrugged, and smiled at the men. “I’ll, uh, just go up.”

Jeff left the gallery, disappearing among the crowd of people, and the leader snapped his fingers at one of the men, who moved to a set of stanchions and began blocking off the gallery’s rear entrance. The leader and the other man began herding people out of the gallery. 

“Sorry, this exhibit is closed. I have to ask you leave.” “This exhibit is now closed. Please use the nearest exit.” Slowly, people began shuffling out. “This exhibit is now closed. We are closed for the evening.” “We’re closing. Thank you.”

 

The fourth man busted out onto the roof of the museum, running directly to the skylight above the Impressionist gallery. Working fast, he fixed plastic explosives along the panes of glass then looked toward Central Park. With a flashlight, he signaled an approaching helicopter.

 

As the last of the stragglers cleared the gallery’s main entrance, the leader turned to put up the last set of stanchions and came face to face with Miranda. “I’m sorry, ma’am, this exhibit is closed.”

“Hm?” Miranda set down her briefcase and checked her watch. “It’s only quarter of five.”

“We’re closed,” the man said again, trying for a polite smile that twisted into a smirk. “For cleaning.”

Miranda studied him a moment before waving him off and walking away. She found Bob in the hallway. “Robert, seems I’ve been evicted.”

Bob frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The Impressionist gallery is apparently closed for cleaning.”

Bob’s frown deepened. “Cleaning?”

“Yes, they’re doing it right now.” Miranda didn’t have to reach far to sound put out.

“Ed,” Bob said to a nearby proctor, “you wanna lend me a hand for a minute?”

Miranda sat down on one of the benches lining the hall and waited.

 

With the last stanchions in place, the leader pulled a walkie-talkie from his coat pocket. He spoke fast in a foreign language while moving to the center of the room, under the main skylight.

“Excuse me,” Bob said to the third man, who was standing just inside the entrance. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The man stared back at Bob, wide-eyed. “Yes,” he croaked; his English wasn’t so good.

“What?”

The leader walked up. “Upstairs sent us down to clear this exhibit. They’ve got some VIPs coming through.”

“I didn’t hear about it,” Bob said. “I oversee this section.”

“Call upstairs, if you like.”

Bob studied the strange men, shook his head. “No, you’re right. They’ve been having people down all week.” As he turned to leave, time seemed to slow: he saw another unfamiliar man running from the gallery’s rear entrance; he saw strange shadows moving across the floor in a uniform pattern, and when he looked up at the skylight, there hovered a white helicopter. He turned away from the men, extracting a thin, retractable, electrified weapon from his pocket. With a flick of his wrist it extended. He rounded on the men.

 

Miranda was still on the bench when the commotion broke out. Two of the men ran past her down the hall. She heard Bob shouting for them to stop, so when the leader ran by, she casually stuck out a heel and tripped him. He tumbled, but quickly recovered and lunged for her. Reflexively, she stood and backed away.

“Look out, Ms. Priestly!” Bob called as he caught up. With gritted teeth, he shocked the leader, who wailed and collapsed. Bob backed up, out of breath, and hit the museum’s emergency alarm.

The piercing siren blared, and people began swarming toward the disruption. Discreetly, Miranda backed her way through the gathering crowd and moved to the Impressionist gallery. She glanced around, but no one was paying her attention. She slid under the security gate as it was closing.

She ran to the heart of the gallery, slipping on latex gloves she pulled from her pocket. Then, as if it were something she did on a daily basis, Miranda yanked the hundred million dollar Monet off the wall, ripping it free of its frame, which she tossed aside. Stowed out of sight under the bench, she grabbed the black bag she’d planted earlier that morning. She unzipped it down the sides, and it fell open like a case, the inside hinged and more structured than it first appeared. Placing the painting inside, she re-zipped the bag, and briskly walked back to the security gate, which wasn’t yet all the way down. Miranda lay on her back and slid underneath the gate, right by the briefcase she had set down earlier.

In the chaos of people moving down the hall toward the museum’s exit, Miranda stood, unnoticed, and brushed herself off. She blended into the crowd, strolling along as if nothing at all was amiss.

At the bottom of the Met’s steps, Miranda hailed yet another taxi. She gave the driver her address, glanced back at the museum, and shut the car door.

 

When Miranda arrived that evening, the townhouse was quiet. She closed the door on the world outside and stood for a moment in the stillness, stunned by what she had just accomplished. She collected herself as Cara, the Priestly family’s housekeeper and nanny, emerged from the kitchen to greet her.

“Good evening, Miranda.”

“Good evening, Cara.” Miranda held out the black bag-case, “Would you put this in the study?”

Cara took the bag and headed for the stairs. “The girls are upstairs doing homework, and I’ve opened a bottle of wine.” 

Miranda murmured a distracted “thank you” as she perused the mail sitting on the table in the foyer.

Upstairs, she knocked once on the door to the girls’ study room then entered, smiling. “Hello, girls.”

They looked up from their work with identical grins. It was always a good sign when their Mom greeted them smiling; it meant she was in a good mood and they could relax.

“You’re home early,” Cassidy said.

“I am,” Miranda said, as she walked a precarious path toward their desks, carefully trying to avoid the papers scattered on the floor, “but not in time for dinner, unfortunately. Was it good?”

They nodded in unison. 

“Cara’s poached salmon is always good. You know that,” Caroline said. “We saved some for you.”

“Yeah,” Cassidy said, “but not any of the chocolate bread pudding. It was horrible. We had to eat it all to spare you.”

Miranda laughed, inwardly cringing at the thought of the caloric content of said chocolate bread pudding, and finally reached them, leaning to give them quick kisses on their cheeks. “Thank you for thinking of me. I trust that before you both go to bed tonight, this room will be cleaned.”

“Yes, Mom,” they groaned. 

Miranda nodded. At least the television was off; she was grateful for that small favor. She gestured to their homework. “I can tell you’re looking forward to visiting your father this weekend.”

Cassidy squirmed in her chair. “He said to have our homework done by the time he meets us in the morning. He said he had a surprise, so we wouldn’t have time for homework over the weekend.”

“Yeah!” Caroline said. “I wonder what it is.”

Wondering herself, Miranda quirked an eyebrow. Well, they were Greg’s children also, she supposed, and if it were anything too out of the ordinary, he would have asked her first. Still, she would worry over the weekend. “You’ll have to tell me all about it on Monday night, then, and not leave one detail out.”

“Of course, Mom,” Cassidy said, a little put out. There was no way she and Caroline could not tell their mother.

“Good.” Miranda kissed their foreheads. “I’ll be in the study.” She headed for the door as if walking through a minefield. Over her shoulder, she said, “Bed by ten o’clock.”

She entered the study at the end of hall and saw the open bottle of wine, with requisite glass, and the black bag, sitting on her desk. Her eyes never leaving the case, she poured a glass of wine, and took a liberal sip. For a second, she thought she’d open the case to find the painting gone, vanished as if it and the day’s events were mere figments of her imagination. She drained the glass, set it aside, and unzipped the bag.

The Monet was still there. 

She stared.

_Exquisite_.

Miranda slid her right hand along the edge of her desk and pressed a hidden button, which caused the print of Magritte’s _The Son of Man_ above her fireplace to slide up, out of sight, revealing a shallow, empty alcove, the size of which seemed suited to the Monet. Careful not to touch the paint, Miranda gently placed the painting in the alcove. It fit perfectly.

Miranda sat down behind her desk, poured another glass of wine, and toasted the Monet. “Oh, yes,” she said, and smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

The Metropolitan Museum’s main hall was deserted, except for other police and museum officials, by the time Detective Mike McCann arrived that night. He was glad his tie was clean, his shirt and jacket not too wrinkled. There was just something about the Met, and the neighborhood, that made him uncomfortable. It’d been a long day and he didn’t feel like focusing on his inadequacies; he’d been doing that too much lately, anyway. So, he walked fast, wanting to keep his mind on the facts.

“Mikey!”

Mike looked up from the cup of coffee and tiny container of creamer he was juggling and saw his partner of five years, Paretti, heading toward him. “Hey,” he said around the wooden stir stick in his mouth, “find the chopper?” 

“Abandoned in Queens,” Paretti said.

Mike fiddled with the foil on the creamer, but it wouldn’t give. “Know if it was stolen?”

“Checking—probably off some guy’s pad in the Hamptons.” Paretti turned and called out, “Mr. Lennox,” waving over a slight, bald man with black, thick-rimmed glasses. Then, quietly, he said to Mike, “Mr. Lennox is the museum director.”

They stopped to allow Mr. Lennox to catch up, and Mike took the chance to stab the foil with the stir stick, splattering creamer onto his fingers.

Paretti made introductions. “Mr. Lennox, this is Detective Michael McCann.”

“Sorry to be here, sir,” Mike said, wiping his hand on his pants before shaking Lennox’s hand. With Mr. Lennox and his entourage in tow, they continued toward the crime scene. “Who are the actors?”

“Four,” Paretti said. “All foreign. Probably Eastern European. No print records.”

“Yeah. Illegals. Check with Interpol. Russian government might help.”

“In the works. Point of entry was a hollow statue delivered this morning.” Paretti leaned closer to Mike, lowered his voice. “They brought it in through their own security.”

“Next you’re gonna tell me it was a horse.”

Paretti pointed at Mike. “A Trojan horse?” Mike said, incredulous.

“Bingo.”

“Somebody’s got a sense of humor.”

Paretti nodded. “We got three digits off the truck plate.”

“This place been hit before?”

“They just lost their cherry.”

Mike turned to Lennox. “I gather it was just the one painting?” His eye caught on a tall brunette who was walking at the back of the group, wearing sunglasses—indoors at night—and looking very chic. He supposed the floor length fur coat helped.

“But it’s such an important one,” Lennox said. “It’s a seminal work, a historical watershed. It’s truly irreplaceable.”

Mike smiled and leaned toward Paretti. “I love this neighborhood. Some of these broads are wearing my salary.”

They entered the Impressionist gallery, which was cordoned off and teeming with forensic techs. Mike sipped his coffee, looked up at the skylight. “So, the skylight was rigged to blow?”

“Yeah.” Paretti said. “And there were cargo nets spread out ready to use. And they were wearing rappelling harnesses underneath their clothes.”

Mike paused. “All right,” he sighed. “Let’s track this thing through.” He began walking the gallery. “So, they kill the air, make the place uncomfortable, drive out the tourists, right? Then they lower these gates so nobody can get in to disturb them. Then they lower the paintings into the cargo nets.”

As he spoke, the tall brunette broke off from the group, stepping over to survey a security gate.

“Pull the paintings,” Mike continued, “ditch the frames. Figure they’re gonna fly out of here like a road company of Peter Pan. But somebody makes them early. Chopper takes off. Some of the crew make it, some of them don’t. Basically, amateur night, right?” Mike turned, spotting a half-crushed briefcase. “What’s that?”

“Uh, it was wedged under the gate,” Paretti said. 

Mike walked over. “And?”

A forensic tech opened the case, revealing a heavily fortified metal interior structure. “Not exactly Samsonite,” Paretti said.

Mike crouched down to get a better look. 

“Titanium,” the forensics guy said. “The engineer said that it’d have to absorb 15 to 20 tons to stop this gate.”

The steady click of approaching high heels caused Mike to turn. There, next to the briefcase, was an elegant, black suede, four-inch heel. Mike’s eyes trailed up the black stocking-clad legs, stopping at a criminally short skirt, which revealed that those stockings were indeed thigh-high and attached by garters. It was the tall brunette.

“Seems there may be a couple of holes in your theory,” she said. Mike noted she still wore the sunglasses. “They shut off the air to drive out the tourists,” she continued, “then they escort them out anyway?”

Mike stood. The brunette smiled. “Then they close the gates to keep everybody out, but block one of them open while they prepare to load, conservatively, a thousand pounds of paintings and 800 pounds of men, that we know about, in a—” She turned to Paretti. “What was the chopper model?”

“Sikorsky S-76.” Paretti smirked; he liked this woman.

“Right.” She smiled. “In a chopper with a 600-pound useful load.” Slowly, she removed her sunglasses. “You figure you’ll wrap this by morning, do you, Lieutenant?”

Mike gave her a vaguely patient smile. “It’s Detective. And, you know, I’m a little fuzzy about who you are.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Andy Sachs.”

Mike shook it. “Of?”

“Zurich underwriters requested—well, actually, they—”

“You’re insurance.”

Andy smiled. “Let’s say there’s a gentleman who’d rather not write a $100 million check.”

Mike began walking away. “So, I’m stuck with you on my back.” He shot Paretti a look.

“Aw, come on, Lieutenant,” Andy said. “Who knows? You might enjoy it.”

Mike glared at Paretti, who had the balls to chuckle.

 

The following morning, the investigation began in earnest. Mike and Paretti met in the Met’s security room to start reviewing the museum’s security tapes, but the topic of conversation was Andy Sachs.

“All right,” Paretti said, pulling out a file. “She does live in Europe, but she’s actually from the Midwest. Born Andrea Sachs. Was Andrea Banning for a while, then she went back to Sachs.”

Mike glanced at the file. “Who’s Banning?”

“Some Englishman she married for six months.”

“So she’s not law enforcement.”

“Worse,” Paretti said. “Bail bonds and bounties.”

“Whoa, tough people.”

“Her father’s a lawyer turned Ohio hardcase, Richard Milton Sachs, called ‘Bumper’ Sachs.”

“‘Bumper’? A lawyer?”

“Story goes he got tired of the leisurely lawyer life, wanted more action. He supposedly kept a chain on his back bumper. A guy ran on him once, he brought him back on the end of the chain.”

Mike chuckled. “Guess you don’t wanna cross old Richard, huh?”

The door to the security room banged open, admitting Andy, who was again hidden behind dark sunglasses and carrying a small paper bag.

“Good morning,” Mike said. “How are you?”

Andy ignored him. She took off her sunglasses and tossed them on the desk, before plopping into a chair.

Mike looked at Paretti, shaking his head. “I said, ‘How are you?’”

From the bag, Andy removed a container filled with a greenish liquid and a plastic cup. “Jet-lagged. Thank you.” She shook the container, and then poured its contents, both viscous and chunky, into the cup. She took a drink, winced, and stood, motioning for Mike to continue talking while she drank.

“We, uh,” Mike began, “we thought we’d start with the security tapes. What is that?”

Andy looked at him. “You don’t wanna know.”

A security guard sat down and began accessing security tapes. “All right. These are yesterday’s tapes from the Impressionist wing.” 

A black and white ghostlike image with a time stamp on its bottom right corner popped up on his screen.

Andy sipped her drink. “Why are they different from the corridor cameras?”

“We’re upgrading to thermal imagery. So far, it’s just the high value areas. But it works in the dark. Even senses body heat.”

“Got it.” She pointed at the screen. “So that’s the Monet that morning?”

“Right.”

“Okay, skip forward to the robbery.”

The guard fast-forwarded, then stopped the tape. The screen was completely white; the time stamp read 5:54. “Time of the robbery,” he said.

“Whoa. Zip.”

Mike was confused. “Was the camera still working or what, did they cut the feed?”

“Oh,” Andy said, leaning in. “No. That’s why they cut the air.”

The guard glanced at her. “You know, that could be. These things need a ten-degree difference. If the temperature of the ambient gets within ten degrees of the bodies—”

“Then the camera can’t tell between people and walls,” Andy finished. “How hot did it get in the museum? Check the other cameras.”

The guard pulled up the tape for the Egyptian gallery for the same time. The black and white images still appeared.

“Okay,” Andy said, “so why can you see people in this room?”

“The ambient in that room only went up to the mid-80s.”

“Okay, wait a minute.” Andy shook her head. “You’re telling me that for some reason the area around that particular painting went above 90?”

The security guard nodded.

Intrigued, Andy raised her eyebrows, a wry smile playing about her lips.

 

Andy and Mike walked into the empty Impressionist gallery. Not knowing exactly what she was looking for, she began scanning the room.

“What?” Mike said, watching Andy.

“I don’t know. Something.”

“What, are we channeling now?”

Andy didn’t answer. She stood and studied the space where the Monet had hung.

Mike gave the area a cursory glance then turned back to Andy. “How long you been doing this?”

“A while.”

“Where? In Europe?”

Andy studied the yellow police tape covering the area. _There has to be something_. “And other places.”

“You’re a real self-promoter. Give me a for instance.”

She studied the entire area in front of the painting, the bench ... She froze. “How many legs?”

“What?”

“The bench.”

Mike looked at the bench. “Two.”

 

Mike on her heels, Andy swung open the door to the security office. “You still have that tape up?”

“Yeah,” the guard said, scooting over to the console.

“Great,” Andy said, moving quickly to his side. “Back it up to the morning part of the tape.” The screen flickered as the tape squealed. “Stop.”

The Impressionist gallery appeared again, time stamped 10:41. But there, in the middle of the screen, sat the bench—with three legs.

Andy smiled. “Hello.”

Mike stared at screen, definitely not smiling. “Jesus.”

 

Wanting to move quickly on this new insight, moments later they were in Mike’s car. 

“So they bring this thing in earlier in the day,” Mike said. “What’s in it?”

Deep in thought, Andy kept her gaze out the passenger window, not seeing any of Manhattan flying past. “I mean, it could be a heater.”

“What?”

“In the briefcase, on a timer. Bring the temperature up ten more degrees.”

Mike didn’t comment on that, but nonchalantly checked his mirrors and said, “You ever eat?”

Andy closed her eyes, kept her head turned toward the window. She could see where this was headed. “Hm?”

“Lunch, for instance? You like pizza? I know a great place we could stop.”

Andy looked at him, gauging his intent. She didn’t want this to turn awkward, considering she needed Mike for access to case information. She offered him what she thought was a kind smile. “I’m on London time.”

Sensing bullshit, Mike looked at her, saw the smile, and then looked back at the road. “And pizza’s not your thing.”

Andy didn’t miss the slight bitterness in his tone. “What’s the matter, Lieutenant? She leave you for a stockbroker? Hm?”

“It’s Detective, First Grade.” Mike couldn’t stop his lips from pinching in a bitter smile. “And, uh, he was a urologist.”

Andy smiled, both in commiseration and at her accuracy. They rode in a new, comfortable silence for a few moments, an unspoken understanding settling between them.

“Is there someplace I can drop you? At your hotel?”

“One, I keep an apartment here, and two, I’m going to your office.”

Mike’s smile was wry. “She keeps an apartment. I keep goldfish.”

 

Paretti spotted Andy and Mike and crossed the police station bullpen to greet them, a wide smile on his face. He held out a hand to Andy. “Hello there, little lady. How you doing?”

Charmed, Andy returned his smile and shook his hand. “Detective.”

Paretti turned to Mike. “They don’t seem to be Russian. Tadross thinks maybe Romanian.” He leaned in closer. “The witness is here.”

“Right.” Mike headed toward the bank of interview rooms off the bullpen.

Paretti smiled at Andy, gesturing for her to follow. “Come on in.”

 

Andy stood at the back of the room, half hidden in shadow, watching Miranda survey the line up of suspects. She had to admit, as witnesses went, Miranda Priestly certainly wasn’t run-of-the-mill. No, this woman, her short white hair styled in an elegant coiffure, dressed in a clingy, plum-colored, boat neck cashmere dress cinched at the waist with a wide black belt, this woman looked immaculate, untouchable, and totally out of place. Andy couldn’t take her eyes off of her. 

Managing to look intensely at the line up of men and look intensely bored at the same time, Miranda said, “Number four.”

Mike studied Miranda, looking for any sign of uncertainty. “You sure?”

Miranda rolled her eyes. “I’m sure.”

Mike stared at her for another moment. “Okay.” He held up a clipboard, offered Miranda a pen. “Would you mind indicating that here?”

“Certainly.” 

“Just check it off. And if you could sign down here, please. These gentlemen will take you out, finish the paperwork.” Miranda finished signing. “Appreciate it, Ms. Priestly.” Nodding once, Miranda turned and strode out the door.

Andy watched the gentle sway of Miranda’s hips as she walked away, only averting her gaze when Mike appeared next to her. “We’re going to beat up the Romanians.”

Andy nodded and moved to follow him before stopping. “Wait a minute. I’m gonna go get some coffee.” She walked toward the coffee machine at the rear of the bullpen, catching the end of Miranda’s interview with Paretti.

“That’s everything, gentlemen,” Andy heard Miranda say.

“And you’d be willing to testify?” Paretti asked. 

“Absolutely.”

“Ms. Priestly,” Paretti said, “I have to tell you, people like this, they might have friends. You realize they might try to make it ugly for a witness.”

Andy poured her coffee slowly, listening carefully.

Miranda waved a hand, dismissing the warning. “I understand, and I suppose I’ll take my chances.”

“We’ll nail these jokers.”

“I can’t imagine somebody thinking they’d get away with this,” Miranda said before striding from the room.

Andy moved to the window and watched Miranda cross the courtyard, head high, back straight, legs deceptively long atop blood-red four-inch heels. Something about Miranda didn’t sit right with her, and during investigations she always trusted her instinct. It wasn’t just the woman’s presence, though there was no denying she was attractive. No, there was something else ... But Andy knew she couldn’t force realization, so she’d settle for waiting and watching. She sipped her coffee. Across the way, a driver hopped out of a silver Mercedes sedan and opened the door for Miranda, who gracefully slid inside.

 

“They say anything yet?” Andy asked Mike as she watched three of the four Romanian men struggle against their handcuffs, cursing at the uniformed cops rounding them up.

“Not in English. They’re still trying to find a translator.”

Andy sipped at her coffee. “Let me try.”

Mike looked at her. “Do not tell me you know how to speak Romanian.”

“God, who would ever bother with Romanian?” Andy focused on the fourth man, the smallest one, the one who hadn’t struggled. She pointed. “Give me the quiet one.”

Less than hour later, Andy slapped the file down on Mike’s desk and grinned. “They do speak English. It was a prepackaged robbery.”

Mike sat back. “Whoa, whoa, whoa ... How did you get him to talk?”

“Whispered a little German in his ear.” She waved the question away. “Anyway, he picked them up in Little Odessa. They were given timetables, electrical—”

“Who’s ‘he’?”

Andy shrugged, sat down at the desk opposite Mike. “You don’t think they know, do you?” She leaned back in the chair, crossing her legs on the desktop. “I mean, there were intermediaries. They never saw his face or heard his voice.”

Mike stared at Andy’s sling-back heels, the creamy skin of her legs. He tapped his pencil on the desk. “One-time hires. That’s why they failed.”

Andy raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think they failed? Oh, maybe it was a successful robbery. Maybe they were set up to fail.”

Mike considered this. “Why?”

“Diversion.” Andy smiled, feeling she was on to something. “Make a lot of noise over there, so over here in this room you can take a hundred million off the wall and waltz right out the front door. Oh,” she gasped, truly in awe, “that’s good.”

“Doesn’t matter. As soon as he tries to sell it, we nail him.”

Andy laughed, then got up and began to pace. “He’s not gonna sell.”

“He’s not?”

“Mm-mm. This is an elegant crime done by an elegant person. It’s not about the money.”

“Okay.” Interested, Mike stood and moved closer. “So who’s gonna risk prison to steal a Monet just to not sell it?”

Andy smiled. “A Monet lover.” She pointed to the desk opposite Mike. “Whose desk is this?”

“Uh—”

“Could I use it?” Andy shucked her jacket and sat back down.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Okay.” She began a search on the desk’s computer. “Let’s dig up every major auction in the last five years and see who’s been bidding on Monets.”

After a few hours work, Andy, triumphant, handed a printout to Mike. “See anyone we know?”

Mike scanned the page, a list of Monets auctioned and their bidders. One name cropped up repeatedly—Miranda Priestly. Mike scoffed. “Her? A big day for this woman is dictating fashion do’s and don’ts to anyone gullible enough to buy her magazine. She’s known as the ‘Dragon Lady,’ ‘Snow Queen,’ ‘The Devil.’”

Unconcerned, and recognizing a challenge when she heard one, Andy swayed back and forth in her chair. “Is she?”


	3. Chapter 3

Andy sat at a tucked away table at a cafe on Penn Station’s main concourse, discreetly watching Miranda and her increasingly agitated twin daughters a few tables over. She feigned interest in the _New York Times_ while she eavesdropped. Apparently, they were waiting on someone who was late. The twins’ father, Andy guessed, knowing from the research she’d dived into last night about Miranda’s life that the woman had been married twice, her latest marriage having just dissolved rather publicly.

Throughout the morning, Andy had watched Miranda dote on her daughters; her demeanor only slightly more relaxed than it had been at the police station. She found it fascinating to watch Miranda’s face grow harder the more irritated her daughters became.

One of the girls jumped up and began pacing in front of their table. Miranda checked her watch. “Sit down, Cassidy.”

Cassidy huffed, slouching back down into her chair. “Why isn’t he here? He promised.”

Miranda glanced at Caroline, who was engrossed in her cell phone, affecting disinterest at the fact their father was standing them up. Miranda cleared her throat. “He isn’t coming, so it looks like you’re stuck with me, girls.” 

Andy surmised the twins could hear the forced lightness in Miranda’s tone as well as she could because neither of them looked at her. 

Miranda studied her daughters for moment then stood, placing her bag on her shoulder. “Anyway,” she said, as if tossing off common knowledge, “I’ve got a sailing appointment I don’t want to miss.”

Andy noticed that got the twins’ attention. Cassidy sat up straight and Caroline tore her eyes away from her phone. 

“Sailing?” Caroline asked.

“Mm-hmm.” Miranda toyed with an earring.

Cassidy looked at Miranda, pleading with her eyes. “Can we go, too, Mom?”

“Yeah,” Caroline added. “Dad promised us an adventure, and we haven’t been sailing in so long.”

Cassidy drove it home. “Please.”

Discretion long forgotten, Andy stared at the scene, noticing a small smile touching the corners of Miranda’s mouth. 

Finally, Miranda acquiesced. “Yes, you may come—” The girls squealed. “But,” Miranda continued, “you must wear your life vests.” The girls nodded in unison, bouncing on the balls of their feet, trying to contain their excitement. Eyes gleaming, Miranda leaned close to them, lowering her voice. “Because, girls, we are going to go _very fast_.”

Andy was sure that time the squeals echoed throughout the concourse. She gave Miranda and her daughters a decent lead before throwing some cash on the table and following them. 

_Dragon Lady, my ass_.

 

Sailing, Andy discovered, turned out to be sleek, racing catamarans, traveling very fast indeed along Long Island Sound. The tugboat she was on, watching through binoculars from afar, barely kept up. She saw Miranda at the helm of one the boats, working with a small team of sailors, looking both concentrated and exhilarated at the same time. Andy’s mouth dropped open, breath escaping as if she’d been softly punched in the gut. Miranda was beautiful.

Andy gasped, “Whoa!” then barked an incredulous laugh when a strong gust of wind socked into the sail, lifting one of catamaran’s hulls out of the water, taking Miranda up with it. She saw Caroline and Cassidy, laughing and pointing toward Miranda, who seemed suspended in midair. The hull quickly settled back down into the water, but the catamaran Andy figured Miranda was racing against, overtook Miranda’s boat. She saw Miranda gesture and the sailors worked fast, unfurling a massive red sail, which was full of wind within seconds.

However, it seemed to be too much wind, as the hull of Miranda’s boat lifted out of the water again, and just kept lifting. Andy gripped the binoculars tight as Miranda’s boat flipped, the sail collapsing into the water. She saw the twins jump clear with the other sailors, while Miranda clung to the opposite hull. Andy lowered the binoculars, gaping as Miranda finally fell into the water.

Later that day, Andy sat across from Mike, still processing what she’d seen. She was intrigued and excited, and surprised to find she couldn’t stop thinking of the conundrum that was Miranda Priestly. 

“I saw her wreck a $100,000 boat, with her kids onboard, because she liked the splash.”

Mike shook his head. “Do you have any idea what kind of flesh-eating lawyers this woman has? Hmm?”

Andy smiled. “Mm-hmm.”

“Maybe even political connections. Not to mention press connections.”

Andy giggled.

 

Anticipation high, Andy tried not to fidget. Thanks to the Met’s Director, Jim Lennox, she’d scored an invite to this fundraiser at the National Arts Club, intending to meet Miranda Priestly face-to-face. She knew she’d have to look spectacular to get the woman’s attention, so she donned a shimmering, formfitting, black Carolina Herrera dress, her hair up in a French twist, a few strands delicately framing her face. Now that she was so close to the woman— _thief_ , Andy reminded herself—she was oddly nervous. She took a deep breath. Something told her Miranda could smell hesitation and weakness from miles away.

On the dais, an enthusiastic Jim Lennox stood next to a fine Impressionist painting. Andy recognized it as _The Artist’s Garden at Eragny_ , a Pissarro. 

With a bow, Lennox said, “Ms. Miranda Priestly has very generously loaned us a Pissarro until our own Monet is restored to us.” The crowd clapped as photographers snapped away, flashes popping. Lennox raised his voice. “Not to mention personally apprehending one of the suspects.” Grinning, he waved Miranda onto the dais. “Come up here!”

Miranda smiled and obliged, looking slightly abashed yet entirely sophisticated in an off-the-shoulder matte black dress. However, after seeing Miranda so carefree the day before, Andy could tell the smile was fake. 

“I’m afraid Jim embellishes horrendously,” Miranda said. “I simply did what Jim does at these fundraisers—waved my arms in the air and shrieked for help.” 

Andy smiled and clapped, charmed along with the rest of the crowd. 

As Miranda stepped off the dais, she addressed a woman on Andy’s left. “Gloria. How are you? Lovely to see you.” Miranda air-kissed the woman’s cheeks. An older lady sidled up to Miranda, gesturing toward the painting, saying, “I knew him, you know.” Miranda nodded, shifting uncomfortably, but the lady continued, “His son, that is. Lucien Pissarro in the ‘30s in Paris.”

Sensing her chance, Andy leaned in, catching Miranda’s attention. “It’s very impressive.”

Miranda paused, fixing Andy with an intense stare, which roamed her from head to toe, assessing. Whoever this woman was— _young woman_ , Miranda noted—she was stunning in that Herrera dress, with large, brown eyes, almost beguiling in their openness. _Beguiling and presumptuous_. This creature was lucky Miranda was in a good mood. Glancing back at the painting, Miranda said, “Well, it seemed the right size for the space.” She started to move away.

“Or maybe you were bored with it.” Andy kept her eyes on the painting.

Miranda stopped, turned back to Andy. “Do we know each other?”

“Not yet.” Andy faced Miranda, holding out her hand. “I’m Andy Sachs.”

“Andy?” Miranda may as well have said, “Plague.”

Andy smiled. “Andrea, actually, but everyone calls me Andy.”

Skeptical, yet interested, Miranda shook Andy’s hand. “Miranda Priestly.”

Andy gestured toward the bar. “Drink?” Miranda nodded. 

Andy felt Miranda’s stare on her back as she wove through the crowd. She leaned an elbow on the bar. “Vodka rocks, twist.” She looked at Miranda. “And scotch neat.”

Raising an eyebrow, Miranda said, “How did you know that?”

_Okay_ , Andy thought, _here we go_. She smiled. “I’ve been reading about you.”

“Oh? Where?”

“In a file.”

“Who do you work for?”

Andy raised her glass to Miranda. “I’m in the art world.”

Face betraying nothing other than mild interest, Miranda tapped her glass to Andy’s. They watched each other as they sipped.

“Dealer?” Miranda asked.

“Mm-mm.”

“Gallery owner?”

Andy set down her drink. “No, it’s closer to insurance.”

Miranda smiled then, but it wasn’t kind. “I’m covered.”

Unflinching, Andy said, “Not for this.” She waited a few seconds. “The painting?” She leaned closer. “The Monet?” 

Miranda still said nothing, her dismissive smile frozen on her face. 

Andy couldn’t stop from looking at Miranda’s full lips as she leaned in even closer. “You don’t think he’d simply cut a check for a hundred million dollars, do you?”

“Him?”

“The painting’s owner. Irv Ravitz. Surely you’ve heard of him?”

“So you—”

“Get him things.” Andy smiled, her eyes heavy-lidded. “When it’s this much money involved, it usually means I get him someone’s head.”

Amused now, Miranda played along. “And whose head are you after?”

“Yours. Good evening, Ms. Priestly.”

Miranda didn’t watch Andy walk away, too stunned by their interaction to move. _How could she know? What does she think she knows? What exactly does she know?_ Miranda finished her scotch in one swallow and headed after Andy.

Feeling rather pleased with herself, Andy sauntered down the National Arts Club’s foyer. She stopped upon hearing Miranda’s voice behind her.

“Are you trying to—” Miranda caught up to Andy. “Are you trying to imply that I had something to do with that painting?”

“Trying?” Andy slipped on her shawl. “No, I wouldn’t call it an attempt.” They resumed walking.

“What’s your take from this?”

“Five percent of the value recovered.”

“Ah. A bounty hunter.”

Andy smiled. “If you like.”

“Always get your man?”

“Something like that.”

Unsure what possessed her, Miranda stopped, looked at Andy and said, “Think you’ll get me?”

Andy stared right back into Miranda’s bright blue eyes, which gleamed in the same mischievous way as when she’d offered to take her daughters sailing. It turned Andy on, and since she didn’t feel alone in this, she didn’t bother hiding it. She licked her lips and said, “Oh, I hope so.”

Mesmerized by the soft pink tongue darting out to wet full red lips, Miranda was momentarily speechless. She looked back up at Andy’s eyes, finding them darker, compelling. A subtle clench signaled the stirring of arousal deep in her belly. She cleared her throat. “Can I drop you someplace?”

Smiling, Andy said, “I have a car here. Thanks.”

“Then tomorrow? Dinner?”

“You’re on.”

Miranda’s lips quirked. “Let’s make it early. We’ve got a stop to make first.”

 

Miranda sat in her therapist’s office, staring off into space. It was the most ridiculous thing, but she could not get Andrea Sachs off her mind. Black dress, long, slender neck, brown eyes, red lips, pink tongue ... The corners of her mouth twitched.

“What’s happened?” Nigel asked.

Miranda glanced at him, then away. “Happened?”

“Whenever I talk, while you’re tuning out what I say, the corners of your mouth go up.” Nigel looked up from writing. “You’re enjoying something. It’s not me. What is it?”

“An entertainment.”

Nigel narrowed his eyes. “Very little entertains you, so I can easily guess—a worthy adversary?”

Miranda started to nod despite herself.

“Did someone swindle you?”

Miranda smirked.

 

Andy stood still under Mike’s reproving glare, garment bag draped over her shoulder. She’d just arrived and he started in on her, as expected. 

“You waltz in there without even a heads up,” Mike said, pointing a finger at her, “without one word to me or anyone else in the department, for that matter.”

Andy took off her sunglasses. “I, uh, had a little chat with her, yes.”

“You had a ‘little chat,’” Mike scoffed. “You told her balls-out she’s a suspect!”

Andy raised an eyebrow at his choice of words. “I cut through the crap, all right?”

Mike shook his head and entered his office. Andy looked at Paretti, who shrugged. 

She followed Mike. “How long was it gonna take you, Mike?” 

He glared some more as he shuffled papers on his desk. 

“Weeks of wire taps, if you could get them. Guys tailing her to the bathroom.” Andy sighed, perched on the edge of his desk. “I found out in ten minutes. She did it. The smug bitch did it.”

“You compromised the investigation.”

“No, I jump-started it.”

“Oh, really? What do you have to show for it, besides a date? And I don’t even wanna get into that.”

Andy bit her lower lip and looked away. “The woman likes the high wire. She’s rich and she’s bored. I’m gonna play with her for a while.”

Heading for the door, Mike said, “Well, I think there’s some question as to who’s playing whom.”

“You saying I shouldn’t go?”

“Don’t piss on the department, Andy, okay? We’re on this.”

Andy winced, knowing that Mike had no idea with whom he was dealing.

 

Mike, Paretti, and a small gang of detectives pulled up outside Miranda’s townhouse, squad car in tow. Wasting no time, Mike bounded up the steps and rang the bell. 

Cara answered, and Mike brandished his badge along with a warrant. “How do you do? This is a warrant. We’re here to conduct a legal search of these premises.” He handed Cara the warrant as he stepped over the threshold. “I’d let us.”

Once in the foyer, Mike was all business. He pointed upstairs. “Paretti, give me two up here. I want two more men in this room here. Let’s go. Move, move.”

Paretti ushered in the other detectives. “Come on, let’s go. John, you take the back room.”

Mike watched Cara disappear into the kitchen. Seconds later, Miranda appeared, along with Caroline and Cassidy, whose eyes were wide. Mike frowned; he really hated it when children got involved.

“Excuse me?” Miranda said, approaching Mike. “Why are you in my house?”

Mike smirked. He was sure her little minions jumped at that low, cold voice, but not him, not today. “I’m sure it’s a mystery to you, Ms. Priestly, but your lawyer will be able to explain.”

Miranda turned her head slightly, calling out, “Wallace?”

A middle-aged man appeared from the kitchen, managing to look distinguished despite the white apron he wore. Cara handed him the warrant. 

“This gentleman,” Miranda said, “happens to be my attorney.”

Within minutes Mike was back in his car, just as Andy predicted. She put her hand up to hide her face because she couldn’t keep from smiling. She wondered if he was aware of his blatant need to prove himself. As he slammed the car door shut, pealing out to get away fast, she thought it best not to ask. Andy looked over at him. “Keep your knickers on, Mike. I’ll get into her house.”

Later, with a new plan in place, Mike watched Andy cross the courtyard toward the waiting Mercedes. He had no doubt she’d gain access to Miranda’s house. He only worried by what means.

 

As she headed to Miranda’s car, Andy recited the plan. _Get Miranda’s keys. Hand them off at the museum. Get them back at the restaurant. Slip them back to Miranda. Smooth, no problem. What’s five percent of a hundred million? Right._

Andy slid in to the backseat next to Miranda, who looked her over, noting Andy’s choice of little black Chanel dress and string of pearls ensemble. 

Miranda smiled. “Not exactly daring, but it is classic. Acceptable, Andrea.”

Andy laughed. “I suppose that’s a compliment, so thank you.” She looked Miranda over, feeling her body respond to the woman’s nearness, her scent, the combination of cream-colored silk shirt and dark pinstriped pants molding perfectly to the petite body. Before she realized it, Andy blushed. “So, how are you?”

The car pulled into traffic as Miranda looked out her window at the unmarked police car following them. “Popular.”

They rode in silence since Miranda refused to say what would be their first stop. Andy eyed Miranda’s open bag, haphazardly set on the seat between them, and saw the glint of a key ring. Nervous, she bit her lip, trying to think of some way to distract Miranda long enough to snag them. Just as Andy was contemplating some awkward, drastic maneuver, Miranda’s phone rang. Miranda checked the display, murmured an “excuse me” and turned away from Andy to answer. 

“Yes, Bobbsey?” Miranda’s voice was light, almost sweet.

Andy glanced at the driver. Seeing his eyes were fixed on the road, she slipped her hand into Miranda’s bag.

“Yes, I may be out late, Caroline. This is not unusual.”

Hearing Miranda’s impatience, Andy knew she needed to work fast. She had to grab the keys all at once to avoid making noise, but she didn’t dare look down into the bag. She hoped it wasn’t more than a handful of keys. The tips of her fingers traced over pointed metal ridges. Miranda shifted suddenly, nudging the bag. Andy sucked in a breath.

“No. You may not order one movie each—it’s a school night.” Miranda’s tone was stern now. “Both of you may agree on one movie, then go to bed.”

Andy opened her hand wide, hoping to encompass the key ring. 

“Caroline, this conversation is over.”

The car struck a pothole, jolting the occupants and bouncing the keys up into Andy’s palm. She closed her fist tight and snaked her hand out of the bag, laying it in her lap just as Miranda snapped her phone shut. She gave Andy an apologetic glance as she plopped the phone back in her bag, fastening its magnetic clasp before turning back to her window. Silently, Andy released the breath she’d been holding.

Shortly, they arrived at their first destination. Andy looked out her window, then at Miranda. “Are you kidding me?” 

Not saying a word, Miranda exited the car. Andy slid the keys into her matching black clutch, took a deep breath, and joined Miranda, curious to see at just what she was playing. 

Winding their way past other patrons, Andy followed Miranda through the Metropolitan Museum’s foyer. She didn’t bother concealing her delight at the woman’s audacity. Laughing, she said, “And where might you be taking me?” Though she had a very good idea.

Miranda smirked, waving Andy on. “Come, come, come, come...”

They entered the reopened Impressionist gallery. A proctor approached. “Good evening, ma’am,” she said to Miranda, “the museum is closing in 15 minutes.” Miranda nodded, continuing to the scene of the crime.

“Ah,” Andy said, stopping to look at the wall where the Monet used to hang. “Your loaner.”

“The least I could do,” Miranda said with an elegant shrug.

“You know, if I had my pick in this room, I wouldn’t have taken the Monet.”

“No?” Miranda moved closer, her shoulder just brushing Andy’s.

“No.”

Turning slowly, Miranda surveyed the gallery. “What would you take?”

“For my personal choice?”

“Mm.”

Andy’s gaze roamed, landing on a painting she recognized as a Manet, specifically, _Banks of the Seine at Argenteuil_ ; a bright midday scene, depicting a woman and child looking at a few moored dinghies and the river beyond. She nodded at the painting. “That one.”

Miranda walked up to the painting, looking from it to Andy. “You?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You’d like to have that?”

Andy nodded, then looked at Miranda. “Why? Will you get it for me?”

Miranda toyed with a delicate earring as she tilted her head, giving Andy a wry smile. “Anything’s obtainable.” 

Bemused, Andy shook her head and smiled. “Okay, I’ll bite. What would you do to get it?”

“I’d buy a print,” Miranda said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Andy laughed, watching as Miranda walked a few paces ahead. _God, the woman’s smug and arrogant._ Quickly, she opened her clutch, fished out Miranda’s keys, and set them on the pedestal of a nearby statue. As she hastened to catch up to Miranda, she passed a man in nondescript clothing who nodded once to her as he pocketed the keys. 

Gary looked average, but he was sharp and knowledgeable, and he was one of the few men she trusted, using his security company whenever she was in town and in need of his services. He would see to getting a key made for Miranda’s townhouse and have the keys back to her before they left the restaurant that evening. 

Andy’s grin widened. She was going to enjoy nailing Miranda—for the painting, of course.

 

Paretti sat in his car, watching Miranda and Andy enter the restaurant. He spoke into a walkie-talkie. “Mike, it looks like they’re going into Cipriani.”

Mike’s voice crackled through. “Wait a minute. I thought they were supposed to go to Le Cirque.”

“I’m watching them walk into Cipriani.” Paretti shook his head and said with a bit of wonder in his voice, “And on a Friday night with no reservation.”

 

In spite of herself, Andy was impressed: one of New York City’s finest restaurants, no reservation, a prime table in the center of the bustling dining room, and Miranda’s undivided attention. As she glanced at the menu, a waiter appeared at their table, leaning in to hear Miranda’s quiet voice over the room’s din.

“Scotch, neat, for me.” Miranda eyed Andy. “And she would like a...”

“What?” Andy said, interested to see what Miranda might choose.

Never taking her eyes off Andy, Miranda said, “She would like champagne.”

“We have Krug Grand Cuvee 1981.”

“Sounds great,” Andy said. “Thank you.”

“Wonderful. On the way.” The waiter hurried off.

Andy looked at Miranda. It was evident the woman was pleased with herself. “You’ve been busy.”

“I’m sure your files are thicker than mine.”

Andy set her menu aside. “The thing that impressed me most was getting from the poor end of East End to junior editor at _French Runway_ by 24.”

“Yes. Well.” Miranda cleared her throat. “The hard part was learning to talk. But you, now. The matador? The Italian industrialist?” Then, feigning mock outrage, “The ambassador’s daughter?”

“She was cute.”

Miranda snorted. “She was 17.”

Andy smiled, but it was tight. Miranda noted it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yes, she was.”

“That’s a fair litany for a young woman from Cincinnati, Ohio. But the part I didn’t get—I mean, it’s obvious you like men and women, but you never keep any of them around very long.”

Andy looked away. “Yes, well, relationships make things messy.” She sipped her water, dearly wishing it were champagne. Her eyes flicked back to Miranda, who was watching her intently, as if she’d found something she hadn’t known she was looking for and only just realized what it was.

The waiter returned with their drinks, and Andy, grateful for the interruption, thanked him. 

Miranda raised her glass. “Here’s to the fear of being trapped,” she said, and drank. 

Andy couldn’t look away.

 

A block away, Andy’s associate, Gary, sat in the back of a mobile locksmith’s van, peeling keys off the key ring. He held out a silver key with a rounded head to the locksmith. “Got it?”

The locksmith nodded, dug in a drawer by his feet, and pulled out an identical key blank. Taking Miranda’s key from the man, he slid it into the key machine, along with the blank.

 

“Here’s the fish for the lady.” The waiter set down Andy’s plate. “And the steak for the lady.” He set down Miranda’s plate.

“We’d like to pre-order soufflés.” Miranda nodded toward a table a few feet away. “And I’d like to send a bottle of burgundy to those two gentlemen.”

Both the waiter and Andy turned to look. The detectives seated there looked right back. One offered a little wave. 

“Of course, ma’am,” the waiter said. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you.” Miranda sliced into her steak. “At least they look presentable. The ones yesterday looked like flashers.”

“Well, we do our best.” Andy took a bite of fish, savoring the way the flesh seemed to melt on her tongue.

“I’m under glass.”

“Aren’t you always?”

Miranda rolled her eyes. “This is quite different. Soon you’ll know everything about me.”

“There are things we don’t know.”

“Like what?”

“Like why.” Andy took a sip of water. “Were you bored? Fashion shows and photo spreads looking a little stodgy?” At Miranda’s glare, Andy leaned closer. “Is it more fun getting it than keeping it?”

“Is this the fun part for you?” Miranda took another bite, watching Andy as she chewed, taking her time.

“How do you mean?”

“It’s not about the money. You like the chase. Not many women get to chase. It’s like poker. Men don’t let us in the game.”

Andy sat back. “You’re right. My brothers said I didn’t have the mind for it.”

“And now they’re plumbers.”

Andy grinned. “Oh, but you knew that.”

 

Methodically, the die cut into the key blank, following the pattern of the guide above as it moved along Miranda’s key.

Gary stepped out of the van, unable to tolerate the machine’s noise any longer. He lit a cigarette and checked his watch.

 

Soufflés long gone, though Andy noted Miranda hadn’t touched hers, they sipped espresso.

“Can I ply you with anything else?” Miranda asked.

“Nothing.” 

“Cheese tray? Would you like a—”

“Would you like a deal?” Andy quirked a brow as Miranda froze. “Make it easy on yourself.” She leaned toward Miranda. “We’ll just get more warrant searches. Mess up your carpeting.”

A look of annoyance flashed across Miranda’s face and was gone. She leaned toward Andy. “May I ask you a very personal question?” Her voice was seductive, just above a whisper.

Captivated by Miranda’s mouth, Andy said, “Why not?”

“Would you like another shot of espresso?”

Andy’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. She wasn’t sure she heard correctly.

“Would you,” Miranda said again, “like another—”

“Like another shot of espresso? That’s the very personal question?” Andy looked at Miranda in disbelief.

“That’s as good as it gets.”

“Oh. Excuse me. May I ask you a very personal question?”

Pleased to have confounded Andy, Miranda smiled. “By all means.” She sipped her espresso.

Andy smiled right back. “Do you really think I’m going to sleep with a woman I’m investigating? Hmm?”

Miranda sucked in a breath, taking some espresso with it, and began coughing. She recovered and glared at Andy. “Is that the question?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Andy said, smiling sweetly.

“Why should I answer your question when you didn’t seriously commit to my espresso?”

At that, Andy laughed and stood. “All right. I’ll seriously commit to your espresso. If you’ll excuse me.” 

Miranda nodded and watched Andy weave through the crowded dining room, eventually losing sight of her. 

Andy reached the restrooms, but Gary wasn’t yet there. She spun around, looking to see if he was lurking near the entry, but no luck. She was going to have to wait.

Miranda checked her watch. Andrea had been gone nearly ten minutes. She started to entertain the possibility that the young woman had snuck out on her, standing her up in a rather high-profile setting. Again she looked in the direction Andrea had walked, acknowledging the detectives, who raised their glasses of burgundy to her.

Andy paced the hallway. She jumped when Gary burst through the kitchen’s swinging doors. Without a word, he slapped the keys into her outstretched hand and headed for the exit. 

 

Miranda’s car rolled to a smooth halt outside Andy’s apartment. She glanced out the window at it then back at Miranda, who was suddenly much closer. Andy blinked. “I’d let you in—”

“But the world is watching.”

Andy looked out the rear window, the corners of her mouth curling in a wry smile. “Yes, they are.”

“And besides,” Miranda said as she leaned back, away from Andy, “you don’t have any furniture.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Andy grinned, delighted. “That’s very good.” She leaned toward Miranda then, over Miranda’s bag, which was again settled between them and just peeking open. Keys clasped in her palm, Andy moved so her mouth was next to Miranda’s far ear, knowing full well she was giving the woman a glimpse of her long, perfumed neck as she gave herself cover to slip the keys back into the bag. 

“Good night,” she said as she eased the key ring into the bag, her tone low and husky, her breath caressing Miranda’s ear. She heard and felt Miranda inhale slowly, turning her head ever so slightly toward Andy’s neck. Suppressing a shiver, Andy straightened and opened the car door. She had to get out of this car, fast. 

“Good night,” Miranda said, just as huskily. The car door’s soft thud resounded through the quiet interior. Miranda tried not to think of it as the sound of finality.

 

Andy entered her bare apartment as if walking in deep sand. The main room was dim and quiet, her heels clicking across the hardwood floor the only sound. She threw her coat on the room’s lone table before resting her hands on it. She was weary from the date, from the constant state of hyperawareness she’d maintained.

She looked toward the apartment’s front windows, wondering if Miranda was still sitting in her car or if she’d already gone. Sighing, Andy admitted to herself that she wanted Miranda, a quite sudden and intense physical want—her hands tingled and her body thrummed with it. What was worse, she was sure Miranda felt the same want. _Or she’s just particularly good at playing the game._

Andy shook her head. It was no good. Her job was the painting, and she wasn’t going to compromise that for momentary lust, no matter how enticing.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, Andy watched as Cara left Miranda’s townhouse and locked the door behind her. She signaled to Gary and his team, two other men, Larry and Don, waiting in a van marked “Aladdin Cleaning Service” parked a few cars back from her SUV. 

Ever efficient, they unloaded concealed computer decryption equipment and met Andy at Miranda’s door. As Gary and his men put on latex gloves, Andy handed the duplicated key to Gary and slipped on black leather gloves. Gary nodded once to her, checked the stopwatch in his hand, then looked at Larry. “Ready?”

Larry checked his equipment one more time. “Okay.”

Gary turned the key and started the stopwatch. They rushed into the entryway and Andy shut the door. She watched as Don removed the alarm keypad from the wall, exposing its motherboard. He took one alligator-clipped wire from where it hung on Larry’s shoulder and placed it on the motherboard. He grabbed another thin cord from Larry’s shoulder. “Ground,” Larry said, his voice steady, serious, and Don affixed that wire to the motherboard.

“Okay,” Don replied, his eyes on the keypad as numbers began popping up, scrambling, then setting into place one by one.

“Ten ... ” Gary began a countdown. 

They had twenty seconds to get Miranda’s access code before the alarm went off. Andy stood still, willing Larry to work faster.

“Eleven ... ”

Larry typed in numbers quickly, methodically, the readout on his equipment’s screen matching the keypad.

“Twelve ... Thirteen ... Fourteen ... ”

Don glanced at Larry. Larry glanced back. “Fifteen ... ”

Over Larry’s shoulder, Andy peeked at the stopwatch.

“Sixteen ... ”

Don checked the keypad. They had half the numbers they needed. 

Andy shot Don a worried look.

“Seventeen ... ”

Andy saw Don’s mouth drop open slightly, as if he was realizing the mild shock of an unexpected forthcoming moment of defeat.

“Eighteen ... ” 

Gary glanced at Larry, who was still typing. Gary took a breath.

“Nineteen ... ”

The last number clicked into place on Larry’s screen. “Got it.”

“Good,” Andy said, both relieved and annoyed, as she walked through to the foyer.

Gary shook his head as he pocketed his stopwatch. “You’re slippin’, Larry.”

Larry shrugged as he stored the equipment. “Give me a break, all right? Lady’s got a ten-digit PIN.”

Gary moved to Andy’s side. “Check the basement first,” she said as she looked up at the various pieces of artwork adorning Miranda’s walls. 

“You got it.”

The townhouse was an interesting meld of clean, modern lines and opulent works of art, all undoubtedly expensive. Andy realized that the pull she had felt during last night’s date with Miranda was merely a taste of the woman. Andy also realized that Miranda was so adept at dictating beauty because, as evident by the pieces in her home, the pieces kept closest to her, she was in love with it. Despite professional intentions, Andy felt herself becoming more and more captivated with Miranda. She shook her head, refocused, and started up the stairs, chanting to herself, _the painting ... the painting ... the painting ..._

Naturally, it was with pure professional intent that Andy wandered through Miranda’s study and into her bedroom: a decadent place of large bed and cool blues. She could see the bathroom just off to the left, including its rather large, sybaritic bathtub, but what had her transfixed was the painting hanging above the head of Miranda’s bed. It was massive, taking up most of the space on the wall, depicting a group of Italian Renaissance-like women in colorful, draped robes staring at their reflections in a pond. She couldn’t place the artist or the title of the piece, and only turned away when the thought of bringing a sweaty and flushed Miranda to orgasm underneath it popped into her head.

The walk-in closet was nearly as glorious as the painting. A wall for shoes, clothes racks lining the perimeter, everything color coordinated—or was it coordinated by designer? Andy walked its length, gently brushing her gloved fingers along the designer clothing. She congratulated herself on not opening a bureau drawer. _Miranda wouldn’t stash a hundred million dollar painting with her lingerie, would she?_

Back in the study, Andy looked for anything that might be a hiding place. She spun toward the fireplace and saw the Magritte print. She smoothed her fingers along the inside of its metal frame, but there was no give. She looked over her shoulder, right at Miranda’s desk. Running her hand along the underside of the desk, Andy found the hidden button and pressed.

 

“We got it!” Andy held the Monet, now wrapped in plastic, and wound her way through the cheering bullpen. She couldn’t keep the triumphant look off her face as she passed a disgruntled Mike on her way to the forensics lab near the back of the building. “Is the expert here?”

Paretti smiled and stood aside, allowing her to enter. “Ready and waiting, darling. Let’s see what you got.”

“Okay.” Andy set the painting down and began unwrapping it.

“Look,” Paretti said, gesturing behind her, “this is George French, head of forensics.”

“Hi, George.”

“This is Dr. Cornelius of Manhattanville. Come on in, Doc. This is Andrea Sachs.”

A short, bespectacled, balding man shook Andy’s hand. “How do you do?”

“Hello.” She stepped aside. “Well, go to work, Doctor.” 

Cornelius unzipped a small leather case and bent over the painting as Andy turned to see Mike hovering in the doorway. 

“Don’t glare at me, Michael.”

“So, are the laws of the United States completely unknown to you? Or is it because you’ve been living in fucking Morocco?”

“Monaco.”

“Mogambo. I don’t give a shit, okay? It’s illegal entry, theft, trespassing.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“No, you’re not a cop, because if you were a cop, you’d know that this won’t hold up. Don’t you want her to go up for—”

Andy glared at him. “My job is the painting.”

Dr. Cornelius’s voice rang out. “You’ve got a ghost here.”

Mike glanced over. “What?”

Cornelius turned. “Another painting underneath.”

“Monet reused his canvases,” Andy offered, thinking Cornelius should know that.

Mike walked to a microscope set up on one side of the painting. He peered into it and smiled. He stood aside to let Andy have a look. “Monet’s unknown masterpiece, _Dogs at Cards_.”

And there it was, dogs sitting around a poker table piled high with chips, hidden beneath an exquisite forgery of one of the world’s most expensive paintings. 

Andy jerked her head up, mouth tight in a grim line. “Where is that bitch? Where is she right now?” 

 

The dance floor was alive at Runway’s annual benefit, and now that the meet-and-greet portion of the evening was over, Miranda decided to indulge herself. Stefan, her rather young, rather handsome date for the evening, guided her along to the band’s subtle bossa nova. She’d seen the raised eyebrows upon arriving with Stefan, but she couldn’t bring herself to care about what sort of gossip was kicking up. Let them speculate. Let them surmise she’s having a midlife crisis after divorcing another husband. They could have their fun while she concentrated on how silky her Valentino gown felt against her skin. She only half-listened as Stefan spoke to her in a quiet voice, thinking of how it might be to dance with Andrea, feeling that lithe body so close to hers.

Suddenly, Stefan stopped, disrupting Miranda’s private amusement. Miranda looked past Stefan’s shoulder as he turned, and saw Andrea, in a scandalous, gorgeous, sheer black Halston dress, a blood-red wrap winding behind her shoulders down each arm. Miranda’s lips parted. 

“Excuse me?” Stefan said, his German accent thick.

“I’m cutting in,” Andy said, placing her black-gloved hands on her hips. She looked from Miranda to the man she’d been dancing with and had to give credit where it was due; the man looked model perfect with his chiseled jaw, close-cropped blond hair and accent. Surely proof that Miranda could have whomever she chose. Andy pushed away the self-doubt, though, too angry and too aroused to entertain it. She was tired of this cat-and-mouse shit.

Miranda placed a hand on Stefan’s arm, kissed his cheek. “It’s all right. I’ll see you later.” Stefan shot Andy a baleful look before disappearing into the crowd. 

Miranda appraised Andy, cocked her head to the side. “This a black and white event.”

Andy looked down at her dress, holding up her wrap. “Oh, so,” she shrugged, “I wasn’t invited anyway.”

Miranda stared at her for a moment, debating. She held out her arms to Andy’s surprise, who gave her a questioning look. Miranda nodded, figuring the vultures were already talking, so why not ... why not.

Andy stepped into Miranda’s arms. “You left yourself wide open.”

Miranda gazed at Andy’s face, her bare décolletage. “You’re all flushed.”

“How many people can forge a Monet? Five, maybe six?”

“Please. I’m sure I can’t be arrested for a joke.”

“Oh, but this was a little too good.”

Miranda snorted. “You think you’re just inches away.” She led Andy out into a spin, turning her back as Andy returned. They came together solidly, Andy’s arms around Miranda’s waist, her mouth next to Miranda’s ear.

“I am inches away.” Her voice was low but rough, annoyed. “You think I’m just going to peck at crumbs you lay out?” They continued swaying though the music stopped. “I can smell blood on my own.”

Miranda laughed then, and Andy twirled her so they were facing each other. “You smug—” 

Whatever Andy finished that sentence with Miranda didn’t hear as the band struck up a samba. Her grin faded as her desire rose. Andy stood in front of her vibrant and angry, spoiling for a fight, and so beautiful. They weren’t touching but Andy’s hips started to move with the rhythm just the same, and Miranda matched her. 

Andy slid her hands up the sides of her thighs, lifting the dress a few inches, and turned her back to Miranda, who, just at that moment, saw that Andy was wearing only a G-string underneath her dress. Andy sidled around Miranda, moving close but never touching. Miranda turned, swaying and watching, until she finally took Andy’s hand, spinning her quickly then bringing them side-by-side. 

Andy gasped as Miranda spun her again, sliding the wrap off her shoulders and tossing it aside. As she returned to Miranda, with a neat flick of her wrist, Andy turned her around, placing her arms up underneath Miranda’s; she held her tightly, their bodies moving in tandem. She saw sweat glistening on the back of Miranda’s neck and her groin tightened. 

Miranda pushed away, separating herself, unable to bear Andy’s breath on her neck. She took a few steps then turned back to Andy, seeing the dark skin of her aureoles through the dress. Miranda’s mouth watered. She beckoned Andy closer with her fingertips. 

Andy smirked, turning, and slowly backed toward Miranda, her ass shimmering through the sheer black material. Once she reached Miranda, she kept her back to her, but shimmied down her body and back up again, keeping her ass to Miranda’s pelvis. 

Miranda inhaled, grabbed Andy’s arm and brought their faces close. They stilled, looked at each other. 

Miranda felt Andy tremble. “Do you want to dance, or do you want to dance?”

Andy slid a hand behind Miranda’s neck slowly pulling her down as she reached up. A tentative first touch, then another with tongues, and Miranda forgot to care that she was kissing a woman in the middle of the dance floor at the benefit.

 

As they entered Miranda’s dark, quiet townhouse Andy said, “Your girls?”

“With their father,” Miranda murmured, locking the door.

Thankful for that, Andy stripped off her gloves, dropping them on the floor. Next went her dress, which she slid off her shoulders into a puddle of fabric at her feet, and then she stood before Miranda in a tiny patch of material and heels.

Miranda approached, every step deliberate, and traced a finger from Andy’s bottom lip down the long line of her neck, between her breasts, watching as the nipples stiffened, to the G-string, slipping her finger just underneath the hem, sensing Andy’s tantalizing heat. “Take this off.”

Without breaking eye contact, Andy slid the flimsy lingerie down her long, smooth legs. Miranda watched the cloth stick to Andy’s skin and the small patch of dark, downy hair, pulling away, stretching thin a thick strand of Andy’s wet arousal before breaking free. 

Andy couldn’t help blushing, unable to recall if she’d ever been so wet, and Miranda moaned in the back of her throat. Andy took off her heels, too, and then eased her hands up Miranda’s stocking-clad legs as she straightened, gathering up the gown as she went. Lifting the gown over Miranda’s head, Andy inhaled deep the smell of Miranda, the scent of her arousal, the scent of her body mixed with subtle, expensive perfume. Much stronger than anticipated surged the dual needs within Andy to have and be had by this woman.

She dropped Miranda’s gown on the floor then glided her hands up Miranda’s arms, up through the silvery white hair at the nape of her delicate neck, which felt every bit as thick and luxurious as it looked. Her hand full of hair, Andy gently tugged, encouraging Miranda’s head back. Andy leaned in and their mouths opened to each other in a wet exploratory kiss that threatened to devour them both. 

Finally, Andy pulled back, gasping as she said, “Now.”

They divested Miranda of her remaining clothes, and Andy lay down on the marble floor at her feet, wanton, knees bent and arms splayed. Miranda knelt between Andy’s legs, watching her breasts rise and fall with each shallow breath, before placing her hands on either side of Andy’s slim torso and leaning over her. In a gentle collapse, Miranda brought their bodies together. Andy shuddered, while the muscles in Miranda’s body seemed to tighten, attuning themselves to the flesh beneath hers, pliable yet firm and gloriously new. Rolling her hips, Miranda moved her mound against Andy’s, a teasing nudge of clit against clit. 

“Oh,” Miranda moaned, her body stilling. 

Andy whimpered. She ran her fingers through Miranda’s hair and answered with a hip roll of her own. Shifting Miranda to the left, Andy palmed her breast, giving the nipple a gentle pinch and tug, before sliding her hand down between Miranda’s legs. Glad she wasn’t the only one dripping for it, Andy fondled Miranda’s slippery clit with gentle pressure; Miranda’s hips kept time with Andy’s fingertips as she bent down, taking Andy’s right nipple into her mouth. Keeping the rhythm, she licked and sucked, only letting the breast loose with a soft pop and gasp when Andy entered her with two long sure fingers.

“Oh my god,” Andy said, holding her position, fingers buried deep in Miranda, who was all tight warmth. 

Shifting again, Miranda straddled Andy, hands planted on either side of her head. She looked down into Andy’s eyes, swallowed, and said, “Don’t move.” 

Andy licked her full lips and nodded, watching as Miranda moved forward, causing Andy’s fingers to nearly slide free, then back, taking Andy deep inside again. Miranda’s eyes rolled back as she lifted up her head, setting a steady pace as she rode. 

While Andy kept her one hand still, she raised the other, unable to resist either caressing Miranda’s exposed neck or placing her palm flat upon Miranda’s flushed upper chest. She saw the sweat starting to bead at Miranda’s hairline, the lower lip caught in teeth, the sway of breasts, and thought Miranda looked magnificent. Andy lifted her head and licked from the base of Miranda’s throat up to her chin as she moved her hand down to cup Miranda’s left breast, squeezing it, then pinching its nipple between thumb and forefinger.

Miranda cried out and began to move faster. Andy hummed, pleased with that reaction, and curled her fingers inside Miranda, pressing hard against that rough patch of skin just there. Miranda cried out again and looked down at Andy, her eyes bright, dark, and helpless at the same time.

“God, you feel good, Miranda.” Andy smoothed Miranda’s hair off her forehead, slid her hand to the back of Miranda’s head and pulled, hard. Miranda jerked, pushing back against Andy’s hand as if she wanted it inside her entirely, and came while moaning Andy’s name.

 

After a few moments’ rest, Miranda raised her head from Andy’s chest and croaked, “Bed.” She eyed Andy. “I’m sure you know where it is.” 

Andy laughed, having the grace to blush, and took her time sliding her fingers out of Miranda, who shivered as an unexpected aftershock leapt along her nerves from the sensitive tissue lining her opening to her clit then up her spine.

They made it halfway up the stairs before Miranda rounded on Andy, using her temporary height advantage to plunder her mouth in a searing kiss. Since neither could wait, Miranda took Andy from behind there on the stairs and savored the sweat pooling in the shallow dip of Andy’s lower back with a swipe of her tongue.

Somehow they ended up on the floor in Miranda’s study, Andy straddling Miranda’s face but shrieking for a reprieve from Miranda’s relentless tongue. Finally, Miranda released her and she clambered up into a nearby wingback chair, laughing as she tried to catch her breath. She spotted a water bottle on Miranda’s desk and reached for it, gulping down the liquid as Miranda rolled onto her hands and knees.

“You,” Miranda panted, “are the most remarkable woman.”

Andy grinned. “You don’t think we’re done, do you?” 

Miranda looked up, for a fleeting moment daunted, and Andy laughed, pouring some of the water onto Miranda’s sex-mussed hair. Hearing what she thought may have been a growl, Andy squealed when Miranda lunged for her, pulling her from the chair and onto the desk. 

Not giving a damn where anything fell or whether anything broke, Miranda shoved everything off the desk, including the Book, intent on reviewing the spread of Andy’s body and its varied reactions instead.

 

In the morning, Andy donned a white silk robe that fit her perfectly and looked brand new, something Miranda said she had “laying around.” Though skeptical, Andy let it pass, joining Miranda on her terrace, where she perused the New York Times while Miranda looked over the Book. The silence they shared wasn’t heavy or laden, but light and invigorating, as if they’d cleared some unseen massive hurdle and could get on with their lives again. 

When Cara appeared with breakfast, however, Andy felt the sour taste of disappointment rise in her throat: there on the tray next to Miranda’s egg whites and wheat toast sat her usual morning fare—the green goopy drink garnished with a speared plump strawberry. 

“Good morning,” she said to Cara and tried to hide her disappointment, but she knew Miranda saw it. 

“Good morning.” Cara set down their meal. Well, meal and a half. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Not a thing,” Miranda said. “Thank you, Cara.”

“Yes, thank you.” Andy smiled halfheartedly, gestured toward her drink. “I suppose you didn’t just run out for that.”

Miranda glanced at the drink then at Andy, hesitating only slightly, teasing. “No.”

“No.” Andy shook her head. “Damn, I hate being a foregone conclusion.”

Miranda closed the Book and looked at Andy as if she wanted to say something, but she didn’t. 

Andy’s smile was brief, rueful. She snagged the strawberry from her glass and took a bite. “You live very well.”

“Thank you.” Miranda began breaking up the egg whites on her plate.

“It’d be a shame to lose it all.” Andy sipped at her breakfast.

“That depends on a very large presumption.”

“Yes, it does.” 

They stared at each other as Miranda took a bite. 

Andy set down her drink and leaned toward Miranda. “I won’t back off, you know. Not even for a minute.”

Miranda smiled. “I’d be hugely disappointed if you did.”

 

“How do porcupines mate?”

“Old joke,” Nigel said. “Very carefully.”

Miranda nodded, preoccupied. “Carefully ... or unsuccessfully. There aren’t many porcupines.”

“Creatures with highly evolved defense systems.”

“Like porcupines.”

“Like 50-year-old, successful, self-involved loners with a fear of commitment—” Miranda opened her mouth to protest, but Nigel held up his hand “—to another person, an _equal_.”

Miranda scoffed but said nothing. He was right, of course.

“If you’ve found a mirror image and think you’re going to form a rewarding relationship—”

“Think again?”

Nigel raised his eyebrows, saying it all.

 

Pissed off, irritated, disappointed, maybe even a little jealous, Mike flipped through surveillance photo after surveillance photo of Andy in her see-through dress dancing with—wait, wait, that one was kissing—his main suspect in a room full of people. Disgusted, he gave the photos back to Paretti.

“Good morning.”

Paretti looked up at a very relaxed Andy standing in the doorway then glanced at Mike. 

Mike slowly turned his chair to her. “Nice dress.”

Paretti tapped Mike’s shoulder in warning and walked over to Andy. “Looks like it was a great party.” He smiled, placed a comforting hand on her arm, and handed her a photo before he got the hell out of there.

“Mm-hmm.” Andy tossed the picture on Mike’s desk. “You gonna be a cliché? 

“Did you even think twice?”

“No.” Andy sat her bag on a desk in the corner of the office, one facing away from Mike.

“You knew what you were doing.”

“My job.” She shucked her coat. “She likes me. She’ll keep liking me. Keep her right next to me.”

Mike frowned at one of the photos. “And you don’t care what that makes you?”

Andy sighed and sat down. She turned and looked Mike in the eyes. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you really?”

Annoyed, Andy turned away and picked up the phone. “This is just about money, Mike.” She didn’t dare acknowledge that he could easily detect what she was trying so very hard to deny.


	5. Chapter 5

Two days later Andy was struggling to cling to that denial as Miranda whisked her away to Miami under the pretense of overseeing a photo shoot. Miranda had said it would be a short jaunt as she was borrowing a friend’s plane, and then they’d return to Manhattan.

True to her word, Miranda spent just an hour at the shoot, but it gave Andy the chance to watch Miranda work, to watch her enjoy with intensity the rendering of instant decisions—the changing of an ensemble, a pose, lighting—all while she led Andy around, introducing her, touching her lightly on the arm or the small of her back. Miranda kept her close, every touch lingering, a subtle provocation causing Andy to tense with anticipation for the next unexpected brush or caress.

Miranda was obviously in her element, an artist at work in her own right. Andy watched the photographer and models alike gaze at Miranda with frank admiration, everything “yes, Miranda” and “right away, Miranda.” Though she was the only one Miranda touched, irrational jealousy flared in Andy anyway, which annoyed her because if she felt jealous then she was also _feeling things_ for Miranda and that wouldn’t do. Deny, deny, deny.

When they reached the fitting area, Miranda cleared it out. Shutting the door after the last model, Miranda turned and leaned back against it. She looked at Andy, evaluating. “I wonder if you’d do me a favor.” 

On edge, Andy stood in the center of the room with her arms crossed. “Depends what it is.”

Taking Andy’s answer as permission, Miranda approached. “It will only take few moments.” 

She passed Andy, heading for the clothes rack behind her, where she selected a creamy white cashmere dress with a long, draping cowl neck. She moved close to Andy, who uncrossed her arms, allowing Miranda to reach for the hem of the light sweater she was wearing. As Miranda lifted it, Andy tensed, ready to protest. 

“Let me,” Miranda murmured. Andy acquiesced. 

Watching her own hands as they worked, Miranda undressed her, first removing her sweater, then her bra, followed by her shoes and slacks. 

Bare but for black lace-trimmed stockings and panties, Andy stood before Miranda, who did not reach for any of the smooth skin on display. Instead she lifted the cashmere dress over Andy’s head and slid it on. With exquisite precision she dressed Andy, guiding her arms into the three-quarter length sleeves, smoothing the dress over her torso, enveloping it in the buttery soft, clingy fabric. She let the hem drop, settling on Andy mid-thigh, then reached up to adjust the cowl neck, which draped low enough to reveal the enticing valley between Andy’s breasts. She cupped Andy’s breasts gently, feeling as if they might melt into her hands through the cashmere, then rubbed each nipple with a thumb.

Andy trembled, flushed, inhaling deeply through her nose.

Miranda removed her hands and sighed. She gazed into Andy’s eyes, now level with hers with Andy out of her shoes, and whispered, “Thank you.”

Before Andy could recover, Miranda left the room. Shocked at being left in such a state, Andy slowly redressed. She considered ditching the cashmere dress out of spite, but then again, it fit her perfectly. Surprise, surprise. Still annoyed but now fiercely aroused, Andy stormed out of the room in search of Miranda. 

 

When they boarded the plane, Andy fidgeted in her seat until the plane reached a safe altitude, at which time she put her mouth next to Miranda’s ear and requested—well, _demanded_ —that Miranda get on the bed in the small cabin at the back of the plane. 

Miranda started, then looked intrigued and obeyed. 

Once the door closed, Andy wrapped her arms around Miranda from behind, planting feverish kisses along the back of her neck, dragging her teeth along the delicate skin, nipping. 

Miranda whispered, “Yes,” and pushed her ass back against Andy. 

Lifting Miranda’s skirt to her waist, Andy walked her toward the bed then guided her onto hands and knees, pausing only to push Miranda’s silk panties aside before entering her. She knew it was a bit rough, but Andy couldn’t help it. She was overwhelmed; by that stunt with the dress; by the desire to have this intoxicating, powerful woman prone and quivering; by the fear of how strongly she felt for Miranda, for that looming four letter word she wasn’t going to entertain; by the sensation of feeling out of her depth in waters unknown. So, with such pleasurable recourse available, she took it out on Miranda.

Miranda gripped the bed’s duvet with white-knuckled fists. She had a good idea she’d brought this on, but she didn’t intend to stop it. Shutting her eyes tight, she thought of how she’d never let anyone else take her like this, this rough, but she had the distinctly unsettling feeling she might allow Andrea anything–a privilege reserved only for her daughters. And that scared Miranda, so she focused on Andrea’s pounding thrusts, willing them to send her respite in ephemeral orgasmic oblivion. Just a little respite...

 

Andy lay on the bed watching Miranda dress. Miranda opted for rather casual tan linen trousers and white linen shirt, which surprised Andy, who thought it out of character for Miranda to be so casual outside of her home. Perhaps it was a day for surprises. They hadn’t spoken since finishing what had turned out to be an angry sex session. Andy wondered if she’d been a little too rough and glanced away, out a nearby window, ashamed. 

When she saw a lush, green island jutting from a clear blue sea instead of the steely gray of Manhattan, her jaw dropped. “That island isn’t Manhattan.”

Miranda gave a cursory glance then went back to rolling her sleeves. “It isn’t?”

“I have appointments.”

Miranda looked at Andy. “Would you like to keep them?”

Andy answered with a coy smile and noncommittal shrug.

 

The island was Martinique, Andy learned, when they landed at an airport, which was all but deserted except for them and a staff of a few men who arrived in a convertible Shelby Mustang and a six-wheeled Jeep. Andy watched as the men unloaded luggage from the plane’s cargo hold, including a small wooden crate, the size and shape of which fit the stolen Monet. She watched the men put the crate in the back of the Jeep.

Miranda appeared at Andy’s side and handed her a drink before sliding behind the wheel of the Shelby. Andy stared at her in disbelief and tried the passenger door, but it wouldn’t open. She knocked on the metal to get Miranda’s attention. 

“That door’s welded shut. You’ll have to throw your leg over.”

“Throw my leg over?” Andy handed Miranda the drink, and then threw her leg over, climbing into the car. As they drove away, Andy turned in her seat, keeping a keen eye on the Jeep.

As they wound their way through the narrow streets of St. Pierre, Andy was amazed at how beautiful it was; she enthusiastically pointed out various landmarks, either cooing or calling out in uninhibited excitement, much to Miranda’s delight. 

Once out of town, Miranda turned left onto an unmarked, hard-packed dirt road, which ascended through a dense canopy of trees and foliage, at times disappearing in hairpin turns that Miranda navigated with practiced ease. 

Andy glimpsed flashes of white as the road neared the top of the hill. The road crested, revealing a modest white house perched among the green, its backdrop the glittering blue of the Caribbean archipelago. 

Miranda parked and led an openmouthed Andy to the house. There wasn’t a front door that Andy could see; rather, the house was just open, with only shutters for windows and doors. The front porch, set up like a room itself with wood-framed chairs and sofa and a small dining table, was trellised in winding red bougainvillea and opened into the small kitchen. It seemed like a model home, but well lived in, a perfect example of French colonial architecture on the island.

“Oh,” Andy said, tucking wind-blown strands of hair behind her ear, “this must go over.”

“With whom?”

“Whomever you bring here.”

“I never bring anyone here,” Miranda said over her shoulder. “Except Caroline and Cassidy, of course.”

Andy stopped walking, watching as Miranda disappeared into the house. A giddy anticipation, a hope, fluttered in her chest, then, rising into her throat before she could tamp it down. She swallowed it back, only just, and entered the house.

She found Miranda in the master bedroom, one set of closet doors thrown open. Miranda gestured to the clothes, presenting them. 

Andy smiled. “I bet they’re all my size, huh?”

Miranda cocked her head, assessing Andy’s body. “Perhaps. Perhaps a bit off here and there, but I think they’ll make do. I’ll start dinner.”

Andy noticed there weren’t many personal items in the room. Just one framed black and white photo of a woman who looked to be about Miranda’s age, if not younger. Andy picked it up. A mother? A grandmother? It was strange to think of Miranda as a child. What on earth had she been like? 

The sound of running water and the hollow clink of pots drew Andy back to the room. She set down the picture. It wasn’t often she got to enjoy a place as magical as this, and she wasn’t going to spoil it with melancholy what ifs. She changed her clothes, choosing to go topless with just a red sarong tied around her waist. She thought she might have time to swim before dinner, so she grabbed a towel as well, draping it over the back of her neck.

Invigorated by the warm breeze’s kiss on her bare skin, Andy hurried into the kitchen, giving Miranda’s ass a light slap as she passed. “Come on!”

“Would you like some wine?” Miranda called after her.

“Yes.” Andy bounded up the few steps to the deck just off the kitchen and looked out across the Caribbean Sea toward storm clouds crowding the horizon. It was stunning. 

“Whoo! It’s beautiful!” She put a hand to her head to steady herself as she turned to her right and saw the last of the day’s sunlight brushing a muted orange along the tops of the remaining cumulus clouds. She looked back toward the house and saw it. 

The small wooden crate.

Miranda exited the house at that moment with two glasses and a bottle. She stopped right next to the crate. “Want to see it?”

Andy shook her head. “No.”

Miranda continued toward Andy, pouring wine into a glass as walked. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Would you like a splash?” Miranda held out a glass of wine. 

Andy looked at the glass, but she wasn’t particularly interested in wine. She slid the towel off her neck and lassoed Miranda with it. “Come here,” she said, pulling Miranda into a kiss.

 

Later, after dinner, they sat relaxing, drinking wine, enjoying a large fire in a nearby pit. Andy sat with her back to the crate, seemingly unconcerned. 

Miranda kept looking from Andrea to the crate. She just had to ask. “Want to see it?”

Andy looked at the crate, thought for a second, then answered, her tone light. “No.”

“You sure?”

“You think I believe you’d leave your hard-stolen painting lying around a Caribbean hut?”

“What if I did?”

Andy smiled. “And that you’d tell me?”

Miranda took a deep breath. The next words sounded foreign. “What if I trust you?”

“You know you can’t.”

“You don’t believe it’s possible that you could ever trust me, do you?”

“You know how likely I think that is?”

Miranda sipped her wine. They stared at each for a moment. Then Andy stood, picked up the crate, walked over and put it in the fire. She slapped her hands together as if ridding them of dirt, walked past a stunned Miranda and sat down again.

They both stared as the crate was swallowed in flames.

“Should I open another bottle?” Miranda said, dazed. When Andy didn’t reply, Miranda looked at her.

“Hmm?” Andy, shocked at what she’d just done, looked at Miranda. “Yes.”

“I think so.” Miranda nodded.

“I think so.” Andy agreed.

“The ’85 wasn’t very good.”

“No, it’s ... it’s not at all.”

They looked at the fire. The crate was on its way to disintegrating.

“Truce,” Miranda said. “A truce would be good.”

Andy nodded. “Yeah. That’d be great. That’d be good.”

A moment passed with nothing but the crackle of the fire to punctuate the silence.

Andy frowned. “What was it?”

Miranda expelled a breath. “It was a nice little Renoir.”

“Oh. Renoir.”

The wood around the painting had fallen away, revealing a portion of a woman’s face on the canvas underneath. Andy could see it was an Impressionist work. She glanced at Miranda who was all but chugging the wine remaining in her glass. “Nice little copy?”

Miranda winced at the wine’s bitterness, looked at Andy. “We’ll never know, will we?”

“Okay, I give up!” Andy threw up her hands.

“Easy, easy,” Miranda chuckled as she stood up. “I think I’ll get that bottle.”

“Oh, yeah. That would be good.” Andy barked out a laugh, half-relieved, half-mortified, and put her head in her hand. “Oh, you’re not boring,” she called after Miranda. “I’ll give you that.”

 

Andy woke alone the next morning. Hearing male voices, she sat up, trying to locate them. Sliding the mosquito net aside, she left the bed, donned a tank top and sarong, and crept toward the balcony off the bedroom. She peeked down at the deck off the kitchen, seeing Miranda talking to two men in suits. Andy listened. They spoke French.

A few hours passed before Andy heard Miranda approaching the spot she’d staked on the beach, where she sat sunning herself, topless. She didn’t look up from the copy of _Runway_ she was reading. “You’ve complimented me.”

Miranda kicked off her sandals. “How?”

“They were bankers.”

“Who?”

Andy chuckled, looked up. “Who? The suits.” She smiled. “You’re transferring assets, getting ready to run.” She watched as Miranda, clad in a black linen shirt and black sarong, paced in front of her. Why’d the woman have to be so damn sexy?

“And suppose I did run? Then what would you have? Not the painting, not the five million dollar fee, not me.”

“Yes ... ” Andy had to hear this. How could Miranda run, really? Just up and leave _Runway?_ What about her girls? Would she take them with her? 

Miranda stopped pacing and turned to Andy. “Suppose I gave you ten.”

Again, Andy chuckled. “To fail?”

Miranda nodded as she bit the inside of her bottom lip.

Andy looked away, out at the ocean, considering it. She looked at Miranda. “How would I hide it?”

“I’d teach you.”

Andy’s smile faded. She took a deep breath, placing her hands behind her head. She watched Miranda watching her. “You really think there’s happy ever after for people like us?”

That night they lay in bed, sated and heavy-limbed, Miranda on her stomach with Andy draped across her back. 

“Why do I feel like this?” Andy said. “Every time you touch me it so visceral my skin literally crawls—and in the most delicious way. It’s true every time you touch me, including with your eyes.” Andy laughed, a soft noise, feeling as if she was edging along a precipice between elation and utter devastation.

Miranda sighed, content but thoughtful. “I know your body. Just as you know mine. Because the same is true for me completely.” 

Andy’s breath caught. Though she’d wanted it, Andy was sure Miranda would never say something like that. But it was true, wasn’t it? A moment of sudden, irrevocable truth shining like a second chance. Andy sighed. It was also true that she held another conviction, and so fundamentally, that shone just as brightly—that theft is never a noble thing no matter how you spin it. They would not reconcile, and Andy wanted them to, badly. “So just how big of a thief are you?”

“Well, if you count Wall Street, pretty big. If you mean art, I’m just an amateur.”

“You manage to keep the Wall Street stuff quiet. But the art ... Beginner’s luck, huh?”

“Something like that.”

Andy ran the tip of her finger along the shell of Miranda’s ear. “Well, you got your hand caught in the cookie jar now. How are you gonna get out of it?”

Miranda smirked, but it was weary. “It’s just a game, darling.” Her eyes felt heavy. “Just a game.”

 

Andy sat squeezing the last bit of water from a teabag as Mike walked up and dropped a large envelope on her desk. 

“Nice tan.”

“Thanks. Went to the beach a couple days.” She sipped her tea.

“On the job?”

“That’s right.”

Mike leaned his hands on the desk. “And did you, uh, pick anything up?”

“Well, she’s got an ornament worn by Frederick Barbarossa at his coronation in 1152.”

“Really? Stolen?”

Andy smiled. “No.”

Mike studied her. “So, that’s it, huh, after two days and two nights?”

Andy nodded an affirmative. “That was it.”

“Would you like to know where she was the night before she left? Or after she left you last night?”

Andy stopped smiling. She glanced at the envelope. “Not really.”

“Okay, suit yourself.” Mike picked up the envelope and headed for the door.

“Michael.” Andy motioned him back, held out her hand. She took out the photos. They were all of Miranda and Stefan, the perfect male specimen Miranda had been dancing with at the benefit. “Well ... he’s, um ... striking.”

“She seems to think so,” Mike said, keeping his voice low. “Three dates in six days.”

Andy gathered the photos and tried to slip them back in the envelope, but she couldn’t get them to go in. Frustrated, she shoved them at Mike. She threw her things in her bag as she stood. “Well, where does she find the time?” She pushed past Mike, who followed her into the hallway.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Andy cringed at her shaky voice.

Mike caught up with her at a diner down the street from the station. He took the stool next to hers at the counter. “You know, I was okay once.” 

Andy looked at him but said nothing. 

“My girlfriend got drunk, stayed out all night. Came back in the morning married.” Andy’s smile was grim. “Yeah. I told people I didn’t care and then I fucked five women in three days, flipped my car on an on-ramp, beat a suspect unconscious, got suspended. But I was okay.”

“Is there a point to this story?”

Without another word, Mike left.

 

Andy found Mike by Paretti’s desk. She dropped a small envelope in his lap.

“What’s this?”

“Photos of the borders of the Monet,” Andy said as she moved toward the door.

Mike looked at her. “The borders?”

Andy stopped but didn’t turn around. “Before insurers indemnify a painting they remove it from the frame and photograph the borders.” 

Mike took the negatives from the envelope, held them up to the light. 

“Borders are never seen in galleries or auctions, so if a picture is stolen and someone tries to pass off a forgery, the borders won’t match.”

Mike looked at her. “And if the borders do happen to match?”

“Then the forger was in the presence of the original painting.”

“So, if Priestly’s prank Monet happens to be too good–”

“Then we find the forger,” Andy finally looked at him, “and nail the bitch.” She walked away.

Mike called after her. “How long have you had these?”

“Five days.”

“And you didn’t open them?”

“Yeah, well, they’re open now.”

 

Aureole wasn’t busy that night, not that Andy really noticed. As soon as they’d sat down, Miranda slid a gift across the table toward Andy, and it instantly monopolized all of Andy’s attention. 

The diamonds set into the thick platinum oval necklace gleamed, mocking Andy even as they left her breathless. She ran her fingertips over them, admiring how enticing they looked nestled there on the suede of the Bulgari case. “It’s beautiful.”

Pleased that she’d surprised Andy but detecting reticence, Miranda said, “You’re not going to say, ‘I couldn’t possibly’?”

“No.” Andy couldn’t take her eyes off the damn necklace. “I, uh, wouldn’t say anything that boring.”

Somehow, Andy found herself in the back of Miranda’s car, though she couldn’t remember either leaving the restaurant or eating any food. She heard Miranda talking.

“She’s an old friend, but it’ll be like having dinner at a morgue.” Miranda paused. “It occurred to me I might be able to bear it if you came with me.” She looked at Andy.

Realizing she was required to reply, Andy refocused but kept her gaze out the window. “Tomorrow? That’s so soon.” Even her voice sounded numb.

“I sense hesitation.”

“No ... ”

Miranda leaned toward her. “Do you find my company monotonous?”

Andy laughed hollowly. “No.”

“Because I’d hate to think you could.”

Andy turned toward Miranda. “What, be bored by you? Require a little variety?”

Miranda’s brow furrowed and then eased. She sat back. “You’re referring to Stefan.” Snickering, she said, “They photographed me with Stefan.”

Unamused, Andy turned back to her window. “You know, that’s your prerogative.”

“I thought they were. I let it happen. You want to know why?”

“No.”

“I’ll tell you why.”

“I don’t want to know why.”

Serious now, Miranda turned to Andy, leaned close. “I want to tell you.”

“You know what?” Andy emphasized every word. “I don’t wanna know why.” She reached forward, tapped Roy’s shoulder. “Roy, I’d like to get out.”

“Roy, keep driving.” Miranda’s voice was sharp.

Angry now, Andy spoke louder. “Roy, could you stop?”

On a dark road in Central Park, the Mercedes slowed. Andy had her door open before the car stopped. She got out of the car and started walking, not caring where. 

“Just let me tell you why!” Miranda yelled, beyond frustrated.

“No!”

Miranda got out of the car and followed Andy. “Now ask me why!”

“I don’t want to know!”

“You’re upset about it.”

“Yeah, I’m upset because that’s what you wanted me to be.”

“I need you to be upset.”

Andy sniggered at that. “Oh, so she is sadistic.”

Miranda had almost caught up to her. “Did it ever occur to you that I needed to know?”

“Know what?” Andy spat.

“Know whether all it was to you was the painting?” Miranda stopped. So did Andy, but she didn’t turn around. Miranda tried again, softer. “How else could I know?”

“What about you?”

Miranda looked at the park, felt the familiar chill in the night air of the city she’d come to love, considered the magazine she’d come to rule, thought of her daughters and uprooting them from all they’d known, and knew that she’d leave all of it, change all of it, if it meant Andrea was with her. “I can leave here tomorrow. So can you.”

Cautious, Andy turned and looked at Miranda, her eyes wet. “We’d be fugitives. Your girls...”

Miranda looked right back, intense, unblinking. “Fugitives with means. All the difference in the world. And they are resilient. They’d think of it as an adventure.”

Andy shook her head. “I don’t know,” she whispered, feeling helpless. “I don’t know.”


	6. Chapter 6

Just as she walked into the bullpen, Mike, who was pulling on his coat and walking fast, met Andy.

“Hey,” Mike smiled as he breezed past, “let’s go.”

“Where?” She felt sluggish, still reeling from the night before.

“The painting’s borders match perfectly.” He had to admit he was impressed, almost as much as he was excited to have a break in the case. “Then again, I’m sure you knew that, didn’t you?” He nodded toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go meet some forgers.”

 

“I was never an Impressionist.” Frederick Golchan waved an unlit cigarette around as he spoke, sometimes sliding it along his lips, which were nearly hidden by a full but trim silvery white beard. Andy noticed his hair color closely matched Miranda’s, though it was longer, held back in a ponytail. Wary, Frederick spoke to Mike. “Anyway, I pay taxes now.”

“Doing what?”

Frederick breathed deep then said, “Portraits,” as if he really wanted to say, “whoring.” “Inserting the rich into old masterpieces.”

Smiling, Andy said, “The wife’s face on the Mona Lisa.”

Frederick was wry. “From Brooklyn to Greenwich in one generation you gotta have the paintings to match.” He stuck the cigarette between his lips, nibbled at the filter.

“So, who did it?” Mike said.

“The German.” Frederick glanced at Andy. “Heinrich ... ” He paused, searching for the name.

“Knutzhorn,” Andy supplied. Frederick nodded once.

Mike looked at Andy, wondering where the hell she pulled that from.

She shrugged. “Art’s a small world, Michael.”

 

In a Riker’s Island visitation room, Mike held up the forged Monet for Knutzhorn so he could see it through the metal fence dividing the room. “So who do you think did this?”

Knutzhorn sighed as if put out, took spectacles from the front pocket of his orange jumpsuit and put them on. His bald head gleamed under the ceiling’s fluorescent lights. To Andy, he looked old and strangely menacing despite the garish orange of his clothing. 

Knutzhorn motioned for Mike to tilt the painting back some until it hit the right light. He studied the painting for a moment then spoke, his voice heavily accented, “Frederick Golchan.”

Mike pursed his lips. “He said you did.”

Knutzhorn took off his glasses and slipped them into his pocket. “So you think if I want paint, it just comes FedEx and the guards just think it’s therapy while I madly copy a Monet in my cell from the original?” He chuckled.

Casually, Andy put a hand to her mouth to hide her smile.

Knutzhorn looked at the painting again, then squinted his eyes as if narrowing them to a certain spot.

“What?” Andy said.

Grinning, Knutzhorn shook his head and put a finger to his lips. He wasn’t telling.

 

As she reached the car, Andy stared off, lost in thought. Mike opened his door. “What?”

“Nothin’.”

“What?” Mike said again, impatient.

Andy opened her door. “I was just wondering about what he wouldn’t say.” She got in as Mike started the engine.

“Give.”

“There’s nothing.”

Mike took off his sunglasses and chucked them onto the dashboard. “You know what? Life is full of shitty conflicts, okay? _Give._ ”

Andy gave in. “I just wondered if there was a connection between them, that’s all.”

“Between Priestly and that old man?”

Andy nodded, looking down at her empty hands. “Yeah.”

 

When Andy walked into the office the following morning, Mike and Paretti were smiling. “You are spooky,” Mike said. “You are really spooky.”

Paretti handed her a paper. “They owned a gallery together—Priestly and Knutzhorn.” He spoke as Andy read. “In Berlin, 2000. And another one in Hamburg and one in Paris in ’04.”

“You notice the one-man show in Paris in ’05?” Andy asked. “The artist is Knutzhorn.”

“So?” Mike checked the paper again.

“So look at the first name.”

“Tyrol Knutzhorn,” Paretti read.

“Yeah, we spoke to a Heinrich.” Mike looked at Paretti.

It struck Andy then. “You know what it was? The way he smiled at the painting? Pride. Paternal pride. I bet you it’s his son.”

Mike stared at his desk, thinking. “Son of a great forger who paints as well as dad.”

Paretti looked at Andy. “Just hasn’t been caught yet.”

“Well, I assume if you look,” Andy said, leaning back against the edge her desk, “you’ll find Tyrol Knutzhorn lives in New York.”

Paretti was out the door immediately.

Mike moved to follow him, but he stopped by Andy. “You know what? I ... I owe you an apology. I didn’t think you had the chops to see this through."

“Well, you don’t know me.”

“Yeah, but I should have. ‘Cause I bet you’d stand at the pearly gates and kick St. Peter right in the teeth before you’d let somebody play you.” He looked at her with well-earned admiration and left the office.

Andy collapsed into her chair. It was time to decide: leave with Miranda or give her up. She bit her bottom lip, picked up the phone and dialed. In a hushed voice she spoke as soon as the other end was answered. “Harold, listen carefully. Please, don’t interrupt.” She turned, checking the clock on the wall. “If I had to be gone, and I mean seriously gone, in about eight hours, how much could I take with me?”

“Are you all right, Andy? You’ll be taking an enormous loss, if you liquidate like this. Understand?”

“I understand that, and that can’t be helped. But what could I leave with?”

“Call me back in an hour, I’ll have a number for you of some kind.”

Andy watched surreptitiously as a detective entered the office and headed for his desk. “Okay,” she said and hung up the phone. She took a breath then began gathering anything that mattered to her on the desk, putting it in her bag. She leaned over to retrieve files from a bottom drawer when Mike spoke.

“Leavin’ us?”

Andy sat up, tried to remain cool and calm. “No, you’re not that lucky. I’m organizing.”

Mike watched her. “No Knutzhorn’s ever been to see the old man.”

“No?” Andy shuffled some papers around, put some in a drawer.

“There was a Knudsen, though, three times last month. You think that’s just a coincidence?”

Scooting to the edge of her chair, Andy scribbled something illegible on a paper and tried to seem interested. “Could be.”

“Yeah.” Mike backed out of the doorway. “Probably is.” He stood for a moment, thinking, before disappearing down the hallway.

Andy jumped to her feet.

 

Andy snapped her cell phone shut. Miranda wasn’t at her office. “Look, here’s an extra hundred.” Andy stuffed the money through the opening in the cab’s metal partition. “Just go, go!” 

The cab’s tires screeched as the driver made a hard right, blowing through a red light.

 

Cara opened the front door and Andy, near frantic, pushed her way past. “Is she here?”

“She’s in a meeting.”

“It’s very important.”

“Wait in the living room,” Cara said, urgent. “I’ll get her.”

Andy turned toward the stairs, her eyes widening when she saw the luggage piled there. She dropped her bag and ran up the stairs.

“Ma’am, wait!” Cara called, but Andy ignored her.

She stalked toward Miranda’s room, hearing Miranda’s muffled voice as she approached, “I know we have a plug adaptor. I saw it,” and threw open the door.

Stefan sat on the edge of Miranda’s bed, which was lost covered by two open suitcases, both in the process of being packed. He stared at Andy, defiant.

“I just can’t find the damn plug adaptor,” Miranda said as she reentered the room, looking down at the blouses she held in each hand. “Would you go downstairs, Stefan, and ask Cara—” Miranda stopped when she saw Andy in the doorway.

Stefan looked at Miranda then stood, giving Andy a world-class nasty glare as he left the room by way of Miranda’s study.  
Andy waited until he was down the hallway before she stepped into the room. She looked at the suitcases on the bed. “Well, we seem to have backtracked,” she said, managing to keep her voice level.

Miranda put up a placating hand. “No.”

Done and not wanting to hear it, Andy turned and moved toward the door. “No,” she said, waving a dismissive hand.

Miranda dropped the clothes and rushed to Andy, grabbing her arms.

“Take your hands off me!” Andy said, livid, pushing Miranda’s hands away. Miranda backed off as Andy faced her. “Come on, what do you have that’s fresh?” Andy demanded. “Like who that guy is and why he’s here every time—”

“Stefan works for me.”

Andy studied Miranda’s face looking for any sign that she was lying. “Oh, you never thought I was a fool before.”

“He’s here because I owe him money and I wanted to pay him before I go.”

“Oh, really?” Andy scoffed. “And what is it he does for you?”

Miranda hesitated. “I would be compromising him to say.”

“Oh, Miranda, you’re going away together.” Andy gestured to the suitcases.

“No,” Miranda insisted, “I’m going with you.”

Andy shook her head. “Of all the things in the world to take with a leap of faith.” Her eyes teared up; she felt her throat tighten. “How can I possibly trust you?”

“I’m not asking that,” Miranda said, wishing she could touch Andy, soothe her. “I’m going to trust you. Isn’t that what you wanted, my trust?” She took a step toward Andy. “Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll put the Monet back.”

Incredulous, Andy laughed. “Where? Hanging back on the wall in the museum?”

“Yes.”

“You know, Miranda,” Andy said, annoyed, “I’m all checkmated out.”

Miranda shook her head. “If the painting’s back, we’re free of it all. We’re only for each other.”

Dumbfounded, Andy stared at Miranda. “Back on the wall? In the museum?”

“Yes. And you’ll meet me and the girls at four o’clock at the Wall Street Heliport, and we’ll leave together.”

Andy smiled sadly.

“Or ... ,” Miranda continued, “Or you can have them at the museum waiting for me. I’m trusting you.”

Andy took a tentative step toward Miranda, reached for her. Miranda pulled her close, and they kissed, rough and needy. 

Andy whimpered as Miranda held her tight; she struggled to break free. “I can’t,” she said against Miranda’s mouth. She pushed Miranda’s shoulders hard. “I can’t do that!” Miranda tried to hold her, but Andy ducked her grasp, sobbing, “Damn you! Get away!”

Finally free, Andy managed to stumble to the bottom of the stairs before she broke down, collapsing onto her ass on the last step, barely able to catch her breath against the pain in her chest. With an unsteady hand, she reached out for her bag and gathered it to her as if it was a lifeline. Using the banister to help her stand, Andy concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, finally reaching the front door. She opened it and left, not looking back.

 

Andy wandered Manhattan in the rain, letting it soak her hair and clothes. She wouldn’t feel the cold anyway. 

A stoplight turned green, a walk sign blinked on, but Andy didn’t move. Pedestrians jostled past, hurrying toward lives, friends, maybe lovers. Andy turned and walked back the way she came.

Catching her reflection in a shop window, she stared. Her mascara was running down her face; her hair was stringy, clinging to the sides of her face. She felt as cliché as she looked, wrung out and stale. 

This was it. This was who she was. She looked away when her bottom lip began quivering again.

 

Beer in hand, Mike opened his front door, surprised to find a very wet, very miserable Andy standing there. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she said. “I need to talk to you.”

 

By two-thirty in the afternoon The Metropolitan Museum of Art was packed. Paretti stood on the right side of the museum’s lobby, scanning the crowd. His walkie-talkie crackled to life. “Paretti?” It was Mike.

“Yeah?”

“You’re in the lobby, right?”

Paretti rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Mikey, I’m here. Me and about 30 other guys.”

 

The museum’s security room was standing room only. Andy had snagged a seat while Mike opted to pace, too keyed up to sit. He made his way to her. “Let up on yourself. You did the right thing.” He checked the clock as he walked back the way he came: 2:45. “Assuming Dragon Lady shows up.”

Andy started to say something, to defend Miranda, but thought better of it.

“Detective!” A man held out a phone to Mike, who took it.

“Yeah?” Mike listened. “Oh, goddamn it! He leave anything behind? ... Just stake out the whole place. Maybe he’ll come back again. I don’t know. ... No-no-no—is Jack there? Put Jack on the phone. Get Jack.” 

Mike looked at Andy, who mouthed, “What?”

“Forger. You didn’t think we just dropped that, did you? Jack ran it down this morning. Turns out it was a son, and he was right under our noses the whole time.” Mike tossed her a file. “Tyrol Stefan Knudsen—Knutzhorn. Whatever. Priestly’s known him since he was ten.”

Andy opened the file and looked at the surveillance photos of Stefan. She remembered the benefit, then. How Miranda had only place a hand on his forearm, patting it lightly, reassuringly. How Miranda had chastely kissed his cheek, not lingering...

“When his father went to jail,” Mike said, “Priestly became his guardian. Put him through college, for Christ’s sake. Now he works for some modeling agency.”

Andy’s stomach plummeted to her feet. Lightheaded, she sat back. Miranda had been telling the truth.

“Jack, here’s what I want you to do—”

“She’s in,” someone said.

Mike checked the monitor and spoke into his walkie-talkie. “That’s her. Belted trench coat, heels, and black ... briefcase?”

Paretti answered. “Yeah, Mikey, we got her. Center entrance. Gray trench coat.”

Cleaning the lenses of his large glasses, Lennox stepped forward. “Bring up the lobby on the big monitor.” He put the glasses on, squinted.

“Move in quietly,” Mike said to Paretti. “We don’t wanna make a scene.”

Andy stared at the monitor, wishing she could call this off. Quietly, to herself, she whispered, “Miranda...”

On the monitor, Miranda stood dead center in the lobby. She held her hands out from her sides as if offering herself up. She turned a slow circle, looking at every security camera.

“What the hell’s she doin’?” Mike said. “It’s almost like she wants to make sure we see her.”

 

In the lobby, Miranda took a red scarf from her pocket and tied it around her neck, a shock of color like a fresh brand for all to see. After one last look up at the security camera above the reception desks, she set off.

Paretti kept an eye on Miranda. “There she goes,” Mike squawked through the walkie. “Scarf. Move in and pick her up.” Paretti signaled a few men. “Go. Move it. Quietly.” He edged past a nearby patron as gently as he could.

Stride long and confident, Miranda walked down the corridor just beyond the lobby, her briefcase light in her grip. She came to an intersection of one corridor meeting another and found a black briefcase sitting in the middle of the floor, just as planned. She scanned the crowd for a moment, put down the briefcase she was holding and picked up the one sitting there. Then, she walked on.

Paretti made his way through milling patrons, watching as Miranda made the switch, but then seemed to reappear again to pick up the case she’d just put down.

 

The security room was buzzing, all eyes on the monitors. 

“Shit,” Mike said, “she switched the painting.” He barked into the walkie-talkie, “Stay with the painting.”

Andy frowned, leaned toward the monitor, wondering just what the hell Miranda was up to.

 

Paretti put the walkie-talkie to his ear, but there was nothing but static. “What? I can’t—” He spun around, trying to locate a head of silver-white hair and a red scarf. 

And he did, heading up the stairs at the opposite end of the corridor. “Shit! Look there’s another one.”

 

On another monitor, Andy watched as a white-haired woman wearing a red scarf and gray belted trench coat picked up a black briefcase that was resting on the floor near a pillar and walked away. She sat back, her lips twitching.

A security guard checked monitor after monitor, shaking his head. “There are white-haired women in scarves and coats all over the goddamn place.”

Andy grinned.

Mike looked over at her. “Did you warn her?”

“What? No.”

“Did you warn her?”

“No!”

Mike looked back at the monitors. “Then she knew you were gonna betray her.”

Andy sobered, realizing it was true—and Miranda had shown up anyway.

Another security guard groaned. “Oh, shit. They’re going for the staircases. That does it. Now we got four floors to keep track of.”

“Stay with her,” Mike ordered. “She disappears, it’ll be ten years before she surfaces again.”

Andy rolled her eyes. 

Mike turned to Lennox. “Is the Impressionist wing sealed off?”

Lennox nodded. “Completely.”

“Completely. There’s no way to get in?”

Lennox shook his head. “Gates are down. We have men on the roof. If she tries to put that painting back, I guarantee it won’t be in that room.”

 

On every floor, in every corridor, women with impeccably coifed white hair, wearing bright red scarves and gray trench coats, carrying black briefcases, roamed. They often passed each other without acknowledgement as they traveled seemingly random routes. 

And the police chased, running up and down staircases, pushing past people in corridors and galleries, but always arriving a step too late. Every time Paretti tried to follow one of the women, another would appear heading the opposite direction; and then another after that, disappearing among the crowd, which just seemed to multiply. 

“This is ridiculous,” Paretti muttered. “She’s got us running around in circles.” 

He yelled into his walkie-talkie one more time, finally hearing Mike’s reply: “Yeah, I know. You’re fucked. I’m coming down.”

 

Miranda worked her way up to the fourth floor before returning to the first, where she ducked into a bathroom, taking the last stall. She took off the scarf and the trench coat, hanging them on stall door’s hook. Sitting down on the commode, she balanced the briefcase on her knees and opened it. First thing, she slid on the longhaired brunette wig, expertly settling it into place. Then she pulled out a tan cashmere overcoat and set the briefcase aside. Standing, she shook out the coat, glad it wasn’t too wrinkled, and put it on. 

Gathering the scarf and trench coat, Miranda exited the stall, leaving the briefcase behind. She checked the wig in the mirror and had to bite back a laugh—she hadn’t been a brunette for quite some time. After adjusting it in a few places, Miranda was satisfied. She wadded up the scarf and trench coat, stuffing them deep into a trash can just before the bathroom door swung open, admitting a group of a worn out looking women who, thankfully, ignored Miranda.

Back in the corridor, Miranda strolled toward the Impressionist wing.

 

Andy stayed close to Mike as they navigated the crowd, eventually meeting up with Paretti.

“What do we do?” Paretti asked, frazzled. “What do we do?”

Mike spun him around, pushing him back the way he came. “Just start arresting people. Come on.”

Andy watched Mike stop a Miranda lookalike. He took her briefcase and opened it, color copies of the stolen Monet spilling out onto the floor. “Shit!”

Andy started to grin but suppressed it when Mike glared at her.

 

Miranda reached the Impressionist wing, its gates down, and pulled three small, round smoke canisters from the pocket of her coat. She yanked off the seals, put her hand through the security gates, and tossed the canisters into the gallery. They rolled to different areas, settled and then went off, emitting bright flashes of light and smoke.

As she continued strolling past the closed gallery, Miranda casually reached up and activated a fire alarm.

 

The alarm blared. 

Mike looked up at the ceiling, then at Paretti. “I knew it.” He began shoving his way through the crowd. “Excuse me ... Excuse me...”

 

Smoke steadily filled the Impressionist wing as metal doors running on tracks began sliding closed to protect the paintings. In every gallery of the wing, paintings disappeared behind smoke and metal. Except in the Impressionist gallery, where the metal doors stopped just short of covering up Miranda’s lent Pissarro, jerking in place due to two pencils stuck in the track. 

The smoke reached the ceiling and set off the sprinklers. Water rained down on the Pissarro, saturating its paint, which started to streak and run. The vibrant blues and greens of the loaner washed away, cascading down the wall below the painting, revealing patches of ochre yellows, dark oranges, reds and browns. The French chateau faded into dark, craggy coastline. 

 

Mike and Paretti dodged through a throng of people heading for the exits. 

“Coming through,” Paretti said.

Mike shouted, “Get the civilians out of here!”

Finally, they reached the Impressionist wing. Mike looked around. “How do we get this gate open?”

Paretti was back on his walkie-talkie. “Kill the sprinklers in the Impressionist wing now!”

Snail-like, the gate rose. Unwilling to wait, Mike slid underneath. He covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief and moved through the smoke toward the Impressionist gallery. The sprinklers stopped, though water already pooled on the floor. He coughed as he walked into the gallery, waving his hand to clear the air, and then he froze.

The Monet was back on the wall in its frame.

Paretti, along with other detectives and museum officials swarmed in behind Mike. 

Lennox moved to the painting and scraped his fingers through the paint running down the wall beneath the Monet, rubbing them together. “It’s water paint.”

“It’s been here the whole time,” Paretti said. “From what, uh, one, two days after the robbery?”

“There’s something jammed in the track.” Lennox used a pen to lever one of the pencils free. He rotated the pencil and saw lettering in a distinctive font: _Runway._

Paretti looked at Mike, who still hadn’t taken his eyes off the painting. “Returned that damn thing practically as soon as she stole it.”

Jaw having long since dropped, Andy looked on. The metal fire doors began to retract, revealing another painting was missing—the Manet Andy had admired on her first date with Miranda. “Oh, Lord.”

Lennox gasped. “Oh, dear.” He walked toward the empty frame. “This-this can’t be. It simply can’t be.”

Paretti shook his head. “Now, how the hell did she do that?”

Speechless, Mike threw up his hands.

Andy glanced at her watch: 3:40. She backed out of the gallery, then turned and strode for the open gate.

“Where are you going?”

Andy stopped. Mike. She turned around. “Oh, office. Write up my report.”

“The job’s done, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, the other painting, why do you think she chose that particular one?”

Andy kept a straight face. “I have no idea. But, um, it’s not insured by my people, so I’m out of it. Obviously, you’ll still have to pursue it.”

Mike smiled. “I don’t really give a shit.”

“You don’t care if you catch her?”

“Well, I’ll do what they tell me to do.”

“Did you ever care?”

“Yeah. She pissed me off.” He walked up to her. “But look, the week before I met you, I nailed two crooked real estate agents and a guy who was beating his kids to death. So, if some Houdini wants to snatch a couple swirls of paint that are really only important to some very silly rich people, I don’t really give a damn.”

Andy looked at Mike with genuine admiration. “You’re a good man.” She kissed him once, twice, on the lips then backed away.

“Okay. Get out of here. And tell her I said hello.”

Andy grinned, then frowned with faux seriousness. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Go on. And don’t stiff us for your phone bills.”

 

“Taxi!” Andy shouted as reached the sidewalk in front of the museum. She got lucky when one screeched to a halt.

Andy jostled as the cab worked its way from the Upper East Side to Midtown and over to FDR Drive. Traffic gridlocked just yards from the heliport entrance, which Andy could see just up ahead. 

Too excited to wait, Andy gave the driver a wad of money and opened the door. “You know, I’m just gonna run. Thanks.”

She darted across South Street and ran to the heliport’s main building, pushing past a couple just inside the door. She ran past the reception desk, ignoring the employees’ shouts that she couldn’t go out to the helipad without an escort, and burst through the outer door.

Standing at the edge of the helipad, her back to the building, was Miranda, still in her red scarf and trench coat, waiting for Andy. 

“Miranda!” Andy shouted and ran toward her.

Slowly, Miranda turned. Only it wasn’t Miranda, Andy saw, as she stopped running, but some young woman with dark eye makeup done up to look like Miranda. She looked at Andy, bored and annoyed.

“Andrea Sachs?” The woman said, her British accent crisp. 

Andy thought it sounded vaguely familiar. “Yes.”

“She wanted you to have this.” The woman handed Andy a large leather portfolio case and walked away.

Frowning, Andy opened the portfolio, knowing what she’d find. The Manet she’d said she wanted. Miranda gone. 

She snapped the portfolio shut, having trouble catching her breath. Suddenly, Manhattan loomed large behind Andy, unforgiving concrete and steel smothering her, an unremarkable footnote to be blotted out.

 

At JFK Airport, Andy stepped up to the ticket counter and presented her credit card, the leather portfolio at her side. Though it was night, she wore sunglasses. “I have a reservation.”

The woman behind the counter took the card, read the name. “Okay, Miss ... Sachs. Will you be carrying any luggage today?”

Andy wrote Mike’s name and address at the police station on a luggage tag. “No. Can you see that this,” she lifted the portfolio onto the counter and handed over the luggage tag, “gets to this man at police headquarters?” She gave the woman a hundred dollar bill. “This should take care of it.” 

“It probably won’t get there until the morning.”

“That’s fine.”

The woman took the portfolio off the counter. “Departures for international flights are up the escalator to your left.”

Andy nodded, already knowing the way. She turned to go.

“Ma’am ... is everything all right?”

Andy looked at the woman through her sunglasses, barely holding onto her tenuous composure. Nothing was all right. Andy had betrayed Miranda, just as Miranda knew she would, and traded in the weightless soaring of a future with unlimited possibilities for regret’s leaden albatross. “Everything’s fine.”

 

The plane leveled out. Manhattan faded into a blanket of meaningless lights. Andy sat in first class, thankful she had a row to herself. She hadn’t removed her sunglasses. What was the point? She didn’t want to see anything that wasn’t Miranda. She picked up her wine glass, her hand trembling hard, and tried to take a drink, but started crying instead. She set the glass down and covered her mouth, trying to hide her sobs. Doubling over, she slumped toward the seat beside her, cradling her head in her arms. 

A soft touch on her back startled her. She jerked around and saw a feminine-looking hand drop a white handkerchief in her lap. 

Then a soft, familiar voice said, “There’s no need to cry, darling.”

Andy hesitated, then took off her sunglasses and turned to look over the back of her seat.

Miranda, without wig but still in the tan overcoat, a finger to her lips, looked back at Andy. She opened her hand, half wave and half surrender.

Andy’s whisper was deadly. “Did you set this up?”

Tilting her head, Miranda raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth lifting.

Andy asked again, louder, “Did you set this up?” She didn’t give Miranda a chance to answer as she launched over the back of her seat and into Miranda’s lap. “Did you?” she shrieked. “Did you set this up?” Miranda grunted.

A flight attendant moved toward them, frowning. “Miss, please, the seat belt sign is still ... on.”

Andy wasn’t listening, though, because she was busy kissing Miranda as if she needed the air in Miranda’s lungs to survive. It was wet, sloppy, and glorious. 

Miranda’s arms tightened around Andy’s waist, and Andy whimpered, wrapping her arms around Miranda’s neck. 

Finally, the kiss shortened into fevered pecks and they separated. Andy stared into Miranda’s eyes, which were gleaming in that mischievous way Andy loved. She gave Miranda a smile full of threat and promise. “Tell you what. You ever pull a stunt like that again...” Andy leaned down, whispered in Miranda’s ear, “I’ll burn all your couture.”


End file.
